tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45518021995137041762024-03-13T21:21:21.814-07:00When Wise Women Speak"Life is so hard, how can we be anything but kind?" BuddhaJean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-46975033021990499042020-12-12T12:46:00.000-08:002020-12-12T12:46:02.927-08:00A New Administration and Reasons for Hope<p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ULWmwcWhRFs/X9UkaY6rqeI/AAAAAAAABVQ/_aZUUZNgZ7A-WfmiqUaHv9ZITIj3IJevACLcBGAsYHQ/s1390/Now%2BWe%2BHeal%2Bcover%2Bfront%2Bmed.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1390" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ULWmwcWhRFs/X9UkaY6rqeI/AAAAAAAABVQ/_aZUUZNgZ7A-WfmiqUaHv9ZITIj3IJevACLcBGAsYHQ/w207-h320/Now%2BWe%2BHeal%2Bcover%2Bfront%2Bmed.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In mid-2020, I began searching for ways to occupy my time during the pandemic. I wondered if there were others like me, who, needing an outlet, would consider contributing to an anthology. The response was heartening and we have compiled those offerings into <i>Now We Heal: An Anthology of Hope</i>. The volume is unique and, we feel, a fitting way to celebrate the inauguration of our new administration in 2021. It is no secret that we have our work cut out for us in the coming years, but I am confident that together we can "build back better". Perhaps the easiest way to describe the book is to post the foreword which sums it up fairly well.</span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></p><p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><h2 class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Foreword</span></h2><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One sunny day, pre-COVID-19, while walking in my
neighborhood, I saw a group of young people in the local park playing soccer. A
break was in order, so I found a patch of grass and took a seat to watch. Peppering
the sidelines were a variety of onlookers, mostly parents and siblings I’d
guessed, but there was also a young boy from the neighborhood who was there
with what seemed a single intent—to cheer. He didn’t cheer for one side or the
other, he simply cheered. He ran up and down the sidelines with the players and
when anyone scored or made a great play, he cheered. His behavior never
wavered, even lasting for several enthusiastic minutes after the final whistle.
And along with his cheers came laughter. He laughed and cheered, cheered and
laughed. It was puzzling at first, but as my mind and heart opened, I realized
his behavior was not a misguided youthful response—he had figured out a far
more important truth. While most attendees supported one side or the other and
enjoyed only part of the game, he had found a way to appreciate every moment.
With no investment in a winner, every success was reason to celebrate. How about
that as a path to joyous and fulfilled living?</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our search for reasons to celebrate and be joyful in light
of recent events has been challenging. We face change and disruptions that were
unimaginable only a short time ago. EVERYONE is affected, which weighs heavily
on our collective consciousness. In June of 2020, during a particularly discouraging
stretch, the thought occurred that although I couldn’t change what life was
offering, I could change my focus. I began to search online for new voices, new
faces, and new ideas on how to move forward in our present difficulties. It was
stirring to find the internet alive with people and organizations promoting
positive ways of being, and offering solid ideas for change and growth. One
thought, repeated often in cyberspace, finally caught my attention—<i>be the
change</i>. It was time to stop looking for others to give me hope, and be a part
of bringing hope to the forefront. But honestly, I wasn’t sure what I could do.
After some effort reviving “lockdown” brain cells from their stupor, I considered
that I could use my skills as a writer and publisher to share the stories
others had to offer. A collection focused on hope and healing had potential
because, judging by responses on social media, the world was starved for both. </span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My first outreach was to friend and fellow author, Dr.
Veronica Esagui, who was enthusiastic about the idea and anxious to help. We shared
our intentions with friends and family, posted our call to authors on social
media and other venues and waited for a response.</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our request was for articles that showed who we are without
hate, anger or rage. Stories that highlighted compassion and healing to move us
forward and perhaps confront the painfully unresolved issues in our society
that have become clear. We asked for stories that remind us of our boundless
inner strength and the gifts we can offer because of it. We welcomed all genre,
and, remarkably, many were submitted! </span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What will you find in this collection? One of our authors introduces
you to an intergalactic granny who joins with protestors to save their planet.
Another author, who lost loved ones to heart disease, shares her experience and
knowledge on the advantages of a plant-based diet. From another, readers can
explore an informative and enlightening introduction to the music of Gustav
Mahler. Or perhaps you’ll find comfort in what an octogenarian shares about how
her own life lessons enable her to thrive in this time of global pandemic. There
are stories of a healing present and a healing future. Stories of resilience
and hope. Stories that suggest ways to save the planet and the animals with
which we share it. And if those aren’t enough to entice you, several poets
share their inspirations in ways that only poets can. </span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With
the uniqueness of our times in the forefront, I was aware that it took a good
deal of inner fortitude to focus and write for this anthology. Because of that,
I am doubly grateful to those who contributed. Thank you! Thank you also to
Catherine and Jude for positive feedback and support during the mulling stages
and beyond. </span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a name="_Hlk52026261">My natural optimism has been tested in these complicated
times, but in compiling this anthology, I was reminded that giving in to
darkness never serves anyone well. </a>I’m glad to have had the opportunity to read
and share the caring and healing words of our contributors. In the end, I guess
I did look to others to find hope, but perhaps finding hope in each other is the
real lesson after all. My hope is that you will find yours. And if you need me,
I’ll be on the sidelines, laughing and cheering your every goal, your every
success and your every effort.</span></p><h4 class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></h4><h4 class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A list of our wonderful contributors:</span></h4><h4 class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Laurel Eloise Ladwig<br />Judy Fleagle<br />RC deWinter<br />Esther Halvorson-Hill<br />Veronica Esagui<br />Pat Fuller<br />Joan Maiers<br />Judy Stone<br />V. Falcón Vázquez<br />Marilyn Johnston<br />John C. Fraraccio<br />Carolyn Clarke<br />Jean Sheldon<br />Rosalyn Kliot<br />Lori L. Lake<br />Donna Reynolds<br />Rena Robinett<br />Kim Conrad<br />Keith Manuel</span></span></h4><h4 class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></h4><h4 class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; text-align: left;"><span class="a-list-item"><span><span><a name='more'></a></span></span></span></h4><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="a-list-item"><span>WellWorth Publishing </span></span><span class="a-list-item"><span class="a-text-bold"> </span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="a-list-item"><span class="a-text-bold">Paperback
:
</span>
<span>182 pages $12.95</span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="a-list-item"><span>Kindle: $3.99 </span>
</span><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="a-list-item">
<span class="a-text-bold">ISBN-13
:
</span>
<span>978-0983813668</span>
</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0983813663/" target="_blank"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Available on Amazon in print and Kindle. </span></a></span></span><br /></span></p>
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<![endif]--></p>Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-21570577704915907192018-11-16T19:33:00.001-08:002018-11-16T20:22:28.478-08:00Then We Can Say—This IS Who We Are<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Htg7h_LBSzs/W-9l1HJh2vI/AAAAAAAABFE/3YJt2VYPgqAKnBBURQ41UzN_mzvWOUZkQCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/mothersdaycd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="954" data-original-width="957" height="397" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Htg7h_LBSzs/W-9l1HJh2vI/AAAAAAAABFE/3YJt2VYPgqAKnBBURQ41UzN_mzvWOUZkQCPcBGAYYCw/s400/mothersdaycd.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Four years into the 21st Century the launch of Facebook changed the way the world socialized. It was followed in a short time by Twitter and a still growing variety of information exchange hangouts. I was drawn to the little blue bird nest where you can often find me “tweeting with my peeps.” (I can’t help but chuckle just writing that</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tweets are, in a perfect world, brilliant and witty 280-maximum character comments, and peeps are those who follow you. Besides offering instant information, Twitter can be exciting, it can be aggravating, and, on an occasion or two, it can be downright fun. What makes it enjoyable for me is what makes most things enjoyable—the people. They are diverse, spunky, irreverent and all those things that make us uniquely human. It was on Twitter that I met Elizabeth Leonard. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4dNJGsRdD8A/W-9kyP7QXpI/AAAAAAAABE0/gI1PWInSH7o1Zc8Uu61iQbIxNwQYeGBKwCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/eleonard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4dNJGsRdD8A/W-9kyP7QXpI/AAAAAAAABE0/gI1PWInSH7o1Zc8Uu61iQbIxNwQYeGBKwCPcBGAYYCw/s200/eleonard.jpg" width="159" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Elizabeth is a Professor of History at Colby College in Maine, a Civil War historian, and an author. Two of her books examine the roles of women in the Civil War. Yankee Women: Gender Battles in the Civil War, shares the experience of three women who stepped outside traditional roles to serve in the Union Army, and All the Daring of the Soldier: Women of the Civil War Armies, discusses the varied reasons and roles of women who joined on both sides of the conflict. Other books from Professor Leonard include: Lincoln's Avengers: Justice, Revenge, and Reunion after the Civil War; Men of Color to Arms! Black Soldiers, Indian Wars, and the Quest for Equality; and Lincoln’s Forgotten Ally: Judge Advocate General Joseph Holt of Kentucky. Those endeavors alone are enough to keep a person busy full time, but the professor is also a guitarist, singer/song writer, a political activist and a knitter.</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_Crv_p76bCQ/W-9027sJiYI/AAAAAAAABFc/dDSpBwwKIywFLd_C_l9e9zv6ZMN_-OROQCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/daring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="313" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_Crv_p76bCQ/W-9027sJiYI/AAAAAAAABFc/dDSpBwwKIywFLd_C_l9e9zv6ZMN_-OROQCPcBGAYYCw/s200/daring.jpg" width="131" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few weeks ago, to my good fortune, I noticed a tweet announcing the release of her new CD “Mother’s Day.” After several days listening to the delightful collection, it occurred to me to share my thoughts, and, with the author’s permission, a few snippets from the recording. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The music is American folk, a genre that musician Mike Seeger (Pete’s half-brother) defined as “all the music that fits between the cracks.” Folk musicians are story tellers, and Leonard’s knowledge of history and her story telling talents are evident in a number of songs. Also evident is her dedication to imagining and working toward the best for our country, our world, and humanity. Her music draws inspiration from what she sees around her, and she in turn stirs us with her music. Take a few minutes to listen and read, and, if you’re like me, you’ll catch the underlying sense of hope for our future because strength and resilience exists in each of us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Being a long-time feminist, I was moved by the song We’re Still Here. The CD liner notes explain that it was inspired by “wonderful, clever signs” at the recent women’s marches.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To listen click the link below.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We’re Still Here</span></b><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We are, we are, we are here.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daughters of the witches you could not burn,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Working our magic for a better world.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We are here, we’re still here,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Working our magic for a future without fear.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We are, we are, we are here.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Daughters of the workers whose wages you stole,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Still fighting for equality at work and at home.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We are here, we’re still here,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Fighting for justice and a future without fear.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Click link to listen:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Some browser require double click to access audio</span> </span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.jeansheldon.com/audio/stillhere.wav" target="_blank">We're Still Here audio</a></span></b></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Most of us are familiar with this country’s long struggle to end bigotry and hate, but decades of research focused on race and gender in the Civil War give Elizabeth Leonard unique and expansive insight. The Battle of Charlottesville offers a painful reminder that events in Charlottesville, Virginia in August of 2017, show the long way we still have to go.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Battle of Charlottesville</span></b><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You say, that the Battle of Charlottesville </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">is not who we are, well I disagree.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">With these well-chosen markers of an ugly American past</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s who we are, who we’ve been, but not who we can be</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If we remember, we remember,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">All the ones who bled and died that summer day.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the great battle of Charlottesville,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Where white bigotry and hatred were so proudly on display.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If we remember, we remember,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Who we are is not who we must be.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If we remember the battle of Charlottesville,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Someday we’ll end this war,</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We’ll set each other free.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Remember.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Click to listen:</span><br />
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.jeansheldon.com/audio/Charlottesville.wav" target="_blank">The Battle of Charlottesville</a></span></b></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Thomas Jefferson said: "When injustice becomes law, resistance becomes duty." For NFL player Colin Kaepernick, the unjust killing of scores of African Americans by police was reason to resist. Below is a link to the powerful song, Take a Knee, in its entirety. From the liner notes: “This song, combining a modified version of the hymn Lift Every Voice and Sing with story-telling verses whose rhythm and chord progression are based on the Star-Spangled Banner, honors the long history of Americans challenging the blind worship of our national symbols.” </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://cl.ly/ae9128d0e572" target="_blank"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Click to hear Take a Knee</span></b></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are 14 diverse and thought-provoking songs on this recording. I love them all. Each evoke images—from a fist clenched in protest to a mother’s hands meditatively knitting; from humanity gathered for battle, to humanity gathered in love and support. This old folk music fan found the voices, words and instruments akin to a warm, embracing hug, and the sad and angry refrains reminded me that I am not alone in the struggle as our nation searches for who we are, and who we will become. I have hope for us, for our country, and for our world. I have hope because of the work people like Elizabeth Leonard contribute creatively, intellectually, emotionally and physically to move us forward so that someday we can say—with our heads high and our hearts open—this IS who we are! </span></div>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One final song, because it makes me smile and because, should reincarnation indeed be what the future holds, I know my preference If I Get to Come Back. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If I Get to Come Back</span></b><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I always say, if I get to come back. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don’t need a pedigree, papers or plaques.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don’t need a castle, or a throne with gold tassels.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Just let me return as a pampered house cat.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I always say, if I get to come back. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don’t really care if I’m white, brown or black.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Docile or crabby, calico or tabby.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Just let me return as a pampered house cat.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Click to listen:</span><br />
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="http://www.jeansheldon.com/audio/pampered%20house%20cat.wav" target="_blank">We're Still Here audio</a></span></b></span></h2>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you’re interested in acquiring a copy of the CD for you or to share as a gift, they are $10 each and you can do so by emailing edleonar@colby.edu </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mother’s Day by Elizabeth Leonard</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">List of songs: If I Were a House; Button, Button; The Battle of Charlottesville; We’re Still Here; This Path We’re On; If I Get to Come Back; The Knitter’s Tao; Reasons to Stay; How to Silence a Problem Child; Take a Knee; Not; Mother’s Day; Passages; Don’t You Worry</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
This article was originally published on<a href="https://www.me-atlast.com/elizabeth-leonard/" target="_blank"> Me-AtLast.</a> Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-35726111593658753632012-10-01T08:19:00.000-07:002013-11-15T13:50:24.279-08:00Helen Keller Social Activist<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7O1L1kiaTmY/UGjMYNBpC-I/AAAAAAAAAjo/XQbTAnN_9hc/s1600/helenkopt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7O1L1kiaTmY/UGjMYNBpC-I/AAAAAAAAAjo/XQbTAnN_9hc/s400/helenkopt.jpg" width="281" /></a></div>
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Helen Keller was born on June 22, 1880, in Tuscumbia, Alabama
with both sight and hearing. At 19 months, she contracted a disease that although
short lived, left her deaf and blind. The story of her astonishing achievements
against what seemed impossible odds inspired movies, newspaper and magazine articles, and books. Many focused on
the years with her teacher, Anne Sullivan, which is why she is often remembered as an author and lecturer who worked
tirelessly for the blind and deaf around the world. It may also be why she is less known for her
active role in labor movements, woman suffrage, socialism, and pacifism.<br />
<br />
Her
passionate and sometimes vocal involvement annoyed people who believed a person
with disabilities (and women) should remain silent. Southern relatives disapproved of her
support of the NAACP and her involvement in the establishment of the ACLU. The
Nazis burned her books, and her writings and activities interested the United
States government enough to earn her a file with the FBI. As she became more vocal, her fame came under attack. Some even claimed her
political leanings were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i> of
her disabilities. I suppose that could hold a grain of truth. It was because of
her disabilities that she began working for others like her, and became aware
of the disproportionate numbers of disabled in lower income brackets. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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It was not criticism of her beliefs that prompted her to
soften her Socialist rhetoric, but rather an overwhelming desire to further the
work of the American Foundation for the Blind (AFB). She was afraid her own
political views would take away support from the organization. That did not stop
her from working for her causes. She continued less visibly, but with equal passion.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The aim of all government should be to secure to the
workers as large a share as possible of the fruits of their toil. For is it not
labor that creates all things? </span></span></i></span>1924 letter to Senator Robert M. La
Follette from Helen Keller.</div>
</blockquote>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LfrlYRDwbWk/UGjPtEVcbWI/AAAAAAAAAkA/PJK27eB-AGU/s1600/hk1904.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LfrlYRDwbWk/UGjPtEVcbWI/AAAAAAAAAkA/PJK27eB-AGU/s320/hk1904.jpg" width="242" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When Helen graduated from Radcliffe in 1904, she had already published her autobiography <i>The Story of My Life,</i> 1902, and <i>Optimism an Essay</i>, 1903. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><span style="color: black;">"The highest result of education is tolerance. Long ago men fought and
died for their faith; but it took ages to teach them the other kind of
courage—the courage to recognize the faiths of their brethren and their
rights of conscience. Tolerance is the first principle of community; it
is the spirit which conserves the best that all men think. No loss by
flood and lightning, no destruction of cities and temples by the hostile
forces of nature, has deprived man of so many noble lives and impulses
as those which his intolerance has destroyed." Helen Keller, <i>Optimism An Essay </i></span></span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">On Woman Suffrage</span></b></span></div>
<span style="color: #351c75;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></b></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">From the essay, Why Men Need Woman Suffrage, 1913</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Anyone that reads intelligently knows that some of our old ideas are up a tree, and that traditions are scurrying away before the advance of their everlasting enemy, the questioning mind of a new age. It is time to take a good look at human affairs in the light of new conditions and new ideas, and the tradition that man is the natural master of the destiny of the race is one of the first to suffer investigation.<br /><br />The dullest can see that a good many things are wrong with the world. It is old-fashioned, running into ruts. We lack intelligent direction and control. We are not getting the most out of our opportunities and advantages. We must make over the scheme of life, and new tools are needed for the work. Perhaps one of the chief reasons for the present chaotic condition of things is that the world has been trying to get along with only half of itself." <a href="http://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/keller-helen/works/1910s/13_10_17.htm" target="_blank">See the entire essay,</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">On Workers Rights</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A letter and donation to the striking Little Falls, NY textile workers</b></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KikFcjN4c-0/UGjYqmkcsCI/AAAAAAAAAkY/V50izet8bGU/s1600/millworkersstrike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="218" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KikFcjN4c-0/UGjYqmkcsCI/AAAAAAAAAkY/V50izet8bGU/s320/millworkersstrike.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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The Tacoma Times, November 13, 1912</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I am sending the check which Mr. Davis paid me
for the Christmas sentiments I sent him. Will you give it to the brave girls
who are striving so courageously to bring about the emancipation of the workers
at Little Falls? They have my warmest sympathy. Their cause is my cause. If
they are denied a living wage, I also am denied. While they are industrial
slaves, I cannot be free. My hunger is not satisfied while they are unfed. I
cannot enjoy the good things of life which come to me, if they are hindered and
neglected, I want all the workers of the world to have sufficient money to
provide the elements of a normal standard of living—a decent home, healthful
surroundings, opportunity for education and recreation. I want them all to have
the same blessings that I have. I, deaf and blind, have been helped to overcome
many obstacles. I want them to be helped as generously in a struggle which
resembles my own in many ways."</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">On Society</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>From an article in the Socialist newsletter <i>Justice.</i> October 1913</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"The structure of a society built upon such wrong basic principles is bound to retard the development of all men, even the most successful ones because it tends to divert man's energies into useless channels and to degrade his character. The result is a false standard of values. Trade and material prosperity are held to be the main objects of pursuit and conquest, the lowest instincts in human nature—love of gain, cunning and selfishness—are fostered."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything,
but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not
refuse to do something that I can do</span></span></i></span>. Helen Keller</span></span></div>
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In 1932, Helen Keller had the opportunity to visit the top of the Empire State building, after which she received a letter from Dr. John Finley, inquiring about her experience. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Frankly, I was so entranced "seeing" that I did not think about the sight. If there was a subconscious thought of it, it was in the nature of gratitude to God for having given the blind seeing minds. As I now recall the view I had from the Empire Tower, I am convinced that, until we have looked into darkness, we cannot know what a divine thing vision is.</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Perhaps I beheld a brighter prospect than my companions with two good eyes. Anyway, a blind friend gave me the best description I had of the Empire Building until I saw it myself. </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But what of the Empire Building? It was a thrilling experience to be whizzed in a "lift" a quarter of a mile heavenward, and to see New York spread out like a marvellous tapestry beneath us.<br /><br />There was the Hudson – more like the flash of a sword-blade than a noble river. The little island of Manhattan, set like a jewel in its nest of rainbow waters, stared up into my face, and the solar system circled about my head! Why, I thought, the sun and the stars are suburbs of New York, and I never knew it! I had a sort of wild desire to invest in a bit of real estate on one of the planets. All sense of depression and hard times vanished, I felt like being frivolous with the stars. But that was only for a moment. I am too static to feel quite natural in a Star View cottage on the Milky Way, which must be something of a merry-go-round even on quiet days.</span></span> <a href="http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/03/empire-state-building.html" target="_blank">See the entire letter.</a></blockquote>
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Her vision is even more astonishing when you remember it came without sight and hearing. She taught that we are all one. That each of us has something to offer. How many of us "see" with that clarity? <br />
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">No pessimist ever discovered the secrets of the stars, or sailed to an uncharted land, or opened a new heaven to the human spirit. </span></span></i></span>Helen Keller <i>Optimism an Essay</i></blockquote>
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<a href="https://plus.google.com/107265266396869960548" rel="author">Jean Sheldon Mystery Writer</a></div>
Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-5794441678553007932012-08-01T08:13:00.000-07:002012-10-11T10:32:04.799-07:00Matilda Josyln Gage<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jkKUD1sl1AA/UBXwt5VwPwI/AAAAAAAAAf4/e1Ejam_PCM4/s1600/cottongin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="194" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jkKUD1sl1AA/UBXwt5VwPwI/AAAAAAAAAf4/e1Ejam_PCM4/s200/cottongin.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The sudden death of her husband, General Nathanial Greene in 1786,</span><span style="font-size: small;"> left Catherine Littlefield Greene to raise</span><span style="font-size: small;"> five children and
run a struggling plantation. She hired and manager and</span><span style="font-size: small;"> succeeded in both.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> In 1792 she rented a room to a young teacher named Eli Whitney, but was less interested in his scholarly work than his mechanical skills. She explained the difficulties of separating the course hulls of green-seed cotton and suggested an idea for a cotton gin. How much involvement she had in the design and
construction isn't clear, although there is evidence that Whitney's original design had wooden teeth that didn't work and it was Catherine Green who recommended wire as was used in the successful model. Whitney patented the product and was credited with the invention. He paid Green royalties on the patent.
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<span style="font-size: small;">In 1798, twelve year old Betsey Metcalf of Providence, Rhode
Island couldn't afford the hat she saw in a shop window and invented a method
of braiding straw from her family's barn to make one of her own. Like Catherine
Greene, Betsey Metcalf, afraid of social criticism, did not patent
her idea. Mary Kies, of Killingly, Connecticut cared little about what the
neighbors had to say and applied for and received the patent. Because of these
women and a ban on imports, the straw hat industry grew rapidly in New England.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PbOE-uSQYOE/UBIM2Hu-TzI/AAAAAAAAAew/0foynfLD_64/s1600/annaellacarroll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PbOE-uSQYOE/UBIM2Hu-TzI/AAAAAAAAAew/0foynfLD_64/s200/annaellacarroll.jpg" width="163" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anna Ella Carroll</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Are you familiar with the Tennessee River Campaign of 1862? An investigation into the Civil War would </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">tell you it was considered by many as the
</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Union army's </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">first major success</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">. Further research would credit </span>Ulysses S. Grant with the campaign's triumph but might not reveal that
the plan changing the course of the war came from
Anna Ella Carroll of Maryland. Assistant Secretary of War Thomas A. Scott and others at the War Department recognized</span><span style="font-size: small;"> the strategy was </span><span style="font-size: small;">written by a military genius—a genius known as A.E. Carroll. After the war,
an attempt to enter Carroll's role in the official record was
squelched for fear that it would outrage the general population to find the
war had been directed not only by a civilian, but a female civilian. She received no compensation or credit for the action that saved the union.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">During my research, I came across a YouTube video (actually an audio recording), of Agnes Moorehead performing in a <i>Cavalcade of America</i> radio episode about
Anna Ella Carroll. It aired in June of 1941. It is interesting to realize that this story, omitted from history books, played on the radio. (If the video doesn't start, click on the YouTube button on the lower right and listen to it there. It's worth it. Just remember to come back.)</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matilda Joslyn Gage</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But, this post is not about Catherine
Green, Betsey Metcalf, or </span><span style="font-size: small;">Anna Ella Carroll</span><span style="font-size: small;">. </span><span style="font-size: small;">So why all these interesting facts? </span><span style="font-size: small;">I learned about
Greene and Metcalf f</span><span style="font-size: small;">rom a pamphlet called
<i>Woman as Inventor</i> written by </span><span style="font-size: small;">Matilda Josyln Gage</span><span style="font-size: small;"> and
published by the New York Woman Suffrage Association in 1883. A piece called <i>Who
Planned the Tennessee Campaign of 1862: A few generally unknown facts in regard
to our Civil War,</i><i> </i>also by Gage, revealed the remarkable story of Anna Ella Carroll. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">You might be familiar with Matilda Gage for her role as co-editor with Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony of the first three
volumes of <i>The History of Woman Suffrage
(1881-1887). </i>Or, you might have read the book written five years before her death, <i>Woman, Church and State. </i>It is more likely that you know very little about Gage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Matilda Electa Joslyn, </span><span style="font-size: small;">an abolitionist, suffragist, author, lecturer, and radical thinker</span><span style="font-size: small;">, was born in Cicero, New York in 1826. Her family home was a stop on the Underground Railroad. After her marriage in 1845 to Henry
Hill Gage, their home also became a stop</span><span style="font-size: small;">. </span><br />
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In 1848, with small children at home, Gage was unable to attend the first National Women's Rights Convention in Seneca Falls, New York. She made her public speaking debut in 1852 at the Syracuse convention. The movement, on hold during the Civil War, reconvened as the American Equal Rights Association, but with growing internal friction. Gage opposed supporting the ratification of the 15th Amendment unless it allowed votes for women. Others felt that securing the vote for all men would help women. The amendment, ratified in February of 1870, said: "The right of
citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by
the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or
previous condition of servitude." In 1869, Gage, Anthony, and Stanton founded the National Woman Suffrage Association. Two years later, Gage and other members tried to vote, only to find that women were not considered citizens. In 1872, Susan B. Anthony successfully cast a vote and was arrested. Gage said: "Susan B. Anthony is not on trial; the United States is on trial."<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">In 1878, Gage bought a journal called <i>The Ballot Box, </i>which she renamed <i>The National Citizen & Ballot Box </i>and
became editor and publisher. Stanton and Anthony were co-editors and the paper became the voice of the NWSA. This
is a remarkable publication in any era, but especially in the late
1870s. Here are a few details from the prospectus:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">The <i>National Citizen</i>
will advocate the principle that Suffrage is the Citizen's right and
should be protected by National Law, and that while States may regulate
the suffrage, they should have no power to abolish it.</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It
will support no political party until one arises which is biased upon
the exact and permanent political equality of man and woman.<br /><br />The <i>National Citizen</i>
will have an eye upon struggling women abroad, and endeavor to keep its
readers informed of the progress of women in foreign countries.<br /><br />As nothing is quite as good as it may yet be made, the <i>National Citizen</i>
will, in as far as possible, revolutionize the country, striving to
make it live up to its own fundamental principles and become in reality
what it is but in name—a genuine Republic.</span></blockquote>
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Gage's radical views became unpopular with the increasingly conservative movement. In 1890, she left the organization to found the Women’s National Liberal Union, fighting religious fundamentalists working <span style="font-size: small;">to amend
the Constitution and proclaim the United States a Christian nation.</span> In 1893, she published <i>Woman, Church and State </i>and made clear her belief that the church was the greatest oppressor of women. I believe those views contributed to her near complete omission from historical records.<br />
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But Matilda Joslyn Gage is not forgotten. Not completely. A growing amount of information is available, much because of another remarkable women, <a href="http://www.sallyroeschwagner.com/" target="_blank">Dr. Sally Roesch Wagner</a>.<br />
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The Matilda Joslyn Gage Foundation took root in 2000 when Sally Roesch Wagner, the leading authority on Gage, brought together a nationwide network of diverse people with a common goal: to bring this vitally important suffragist back to her rightful place in history. <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">From the website of the </span><a href="http://www.matildajoslyngage.org/" style="color: #0b5394;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Matilda Joslyn Gage Foundation</span></a></span></blockquote>
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="346" scrolling="no" src="http://www.ustream.tv/embed/recorded/2364801?ub=006699&lc=54ABD6&oc=ffffff&uc=ffffff" style="border: 0px none transparent;" width="480"></iframe>
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<a href="http://www.ustream.tv/" style="background: #ffffff; color: black; display: block; font-size: 10px; font-weight: normal; padding: 2px 0px 4px; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; width: 400px;" target="_blank">Video streaming by Ustream</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Sally Roesch Wagner portrays Matilda Joslyn Gage at Bioneers in October of 2009. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Problems with the video? Try this link: <a href="http://www.sallyroeschwagner.com/sally-roesch-wagner-at-bioneers-october-16-2009" target="_blank">Sally Roesch Wagner's website.</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It was Sally Roesch Wagner's book <a href="http://www.matildajoslyngage.org/giftshop/" target="_blank"><i>Sisters in Spirit</i></a> that prompted this month's post. In it, Wagner</span><span style="font-size: small;"> tells the remarkable story of how Native American women influenced our nation's early feminist. As we face another critical moment in the struggle for equality, the work of previous women must not be forgotten. Their voices will remain silent only if we allow that to happen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> <i style="color: #674ea7;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There is a word sweeter than Mother, Home or Heaven; that word is Liberty. </span></span></i>Matilda Joslyn Gage</span></blockquote>
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Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-29998546898166881352012-07-01T09:22:00.002-07:002012-12-10T16:39:27.998-08:00Dorothea Tanning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dorothea Tanning | 1946</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I recently read Dorothea Tanning's autobiography <i>Between Lives: An Artist and Her World, </i>published in 2001. Tanning died on January 31, 2012, at her home in New York. She was 101. The previous year, she published her second book of poetry, <i>Coming to That. </i>An artist, poet, and sculptor, Tanning is, unfortunately, more widely known as the wife of Max Ernst. As unfortunate as that might be, it troubled her less than </span><span style="font-size: small;">to find her name permanently identified with surrealism.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> A</span><span style="font-size: small;">lthough she was a member of the early </span><span style="font-size: small;">movement</span><span style="font-size: small;">, a </span><span style="font-size: small;"> style change in the mid-fifties took her to another level as an artist.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">She was born August 25, 1910 in Galesburg, Illinois, about
50 miles east of the Mississippi River and 200 miles west of Chicago in the
nation's heartland. It was a place she described as "…where you sat on the
davenport and waited to grow up". At 16 Dorothea worked at the
library and after high school attended Knox College, "the college that tried to
teach me something, anything." But she was not a Midwestern girl at heart,
having decided at age seven to live in Paris. At 20 she moved to
Chicago to become an artist, concluding that it was on the way to Paris. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><i>I like to think of it [my life] as a garden, planted in 1910
and, like any garden, always changing. There are expansions and diminishments
as well as replacements, prunings, additions. One person’s garden, one person’s
life. So far.</i></span></div>
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Birthday | 1942 | Oil on canvas</div>
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Shortly after her arrival in Chicago, she found a job as a hostess and attended
drawing classes at The Chicago Academy of Art. Her teacher had
little hope for her artistic talents, and as soon as she realized the school
leaned toward commercial art, she had little hope of a lasting relationship.
It was the only formal art training Tanning received and learned to paint by studying others' work. After losing her job at the
restaurant, a move seemed inevitable. With $25 dollars in her pocket, she took one step closer to Paris—New York City.</div>
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In many ways, New York was no different than Chicago. She
shared a flat with another woman artist and did odd jobs to pay the rent, but
in 1936 she saw the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fantastic Art, Dada,
and Surrealism</i> exhibition at New York’s Museum of Modern Art and was
changed forever. "But here, here in the museum, is the real explosion,
rocking me on my run-over heels. Here is the infinitely faceted world I must
have been waiting for. Here is the limitless expanse of possibility, a
perspective having only incidentally to do with painting on surfaces. Here,
gathered inside an innocent concrete building, are signposts so imperious, so
laden, so seductive, and, yes, so perverse...they would possess me utterly."</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5KZe512TyBE/T--U22vMCpI/AAAAAAAAAco/ryUJkq_N6x0/s1600/avatar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5KZe512TyBE/T--U22vMCpI/AAAAAAAAAco/ryUJkq_N6x0/s320/avatar.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
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Avatar | 1947 | Oil on canvas</div>
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In 1943, Tanning was one of 31 women chosen for a first of
its kind show in New York—all female artists. Also included were Leonore
Carrington, Buffie Johnson, Frida Kahlo, Louise Nevelson, Meret Oppenheim, I.
Rice Pereira, Kay Sage, Hedda Sterne, Sophie Taeuber-Arp, Hazel Guggenheim,
Pegeen Vail Guggenheim, Barbara Poe Levee, Alice Trumbull Mason, and others. Peggy
Guggenheim, who produced the show, was said to have commented later that she
should have been satisfied with 30 artists. It was her husband, Max Ernst, who was
greatly attracted to Tanning's self-portrait, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Birthday </i>and suggested her for the show. He was also greatly
attracted to the artist. After his initial visit, Dorothea and Ernst played chess
every day for a week. Then he moved in and they stayed together until Max's
death in 1976. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zf8HZvWhts4/T--UIkETvvI/AAAAAAAAAcY/t6nPGP_KYuQ/s1600/palaestra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zf8HZvWhts4/T--UIkETvvI/AAAAAAAAAcY/t6nPGP_KYuQ/s320/palaestra.jpg" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: inherit;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Palaestra | 1947 | Oil on canvas</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kWQffde5tkc/T--VE-WqBcI/AAAAAAAAAcw/Qd_unqHMDyk/s1600/maxintheblueboat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kWQffde5tkc/T--VE-WqBcI/AAAAAAAAAcw/Qd_unqHMDyk/s320/maxintheblueboat.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
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Max in a Blue Boat | 1947 | Oil on canvas</div>
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Max Ernst Museum, Brühl </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-goGUCNkTUyo/T--VkRcPtHI/AAAAAAAAAc4/li380tonDpo/s1600/a+veryhappypicture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-goGUCNkTUyo/T--VkRcPtHI/AAAAAAAAAc4/li380tonDpo/s320/a+veryhappypicture.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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A Very Happy Picture | 1947 | Oil on canvas</div>
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Musée National d’Art Moderne</div>
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The couple moved to Sedona, Arizona in 1946 and built a two room house. The shelter, though sturdy, lacked running water and electricity. Eventually those needs were met and kerosene
lights gave way to incandescent bulbs and a well and pump supplied tap water. Even before their arrival, Tanning painted. Over the next three years she created <i>Guardian Angels, Palaestra, Max in
a Blue Boat, Maternity, A Very Happy Picture,</i> <i>Avatar,</i> and others. In 1949,
Dorothea and Max moved to Paris.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I think I’ve been a renaissance man—if he could have been a
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NpsDr8S7mDI/T--ek07fg3I/AAAAAAAAAdU/xayHBbkQnec/s1600/LeMalOublie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NpsDr8S7mDI/T--ek07fg3I/AAAAAAAAAdU/xayHBbkQnec/s320/LeMalOublie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Le Mal Oublié (The Ill Forgotten)</span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">1955 | Oil on canvas</span></td></tr>
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In the mid 50s, although the surrealist movement continued,
Tanning was once again ready for change. That change came in her painting. In <i>Between Lives </i>she
wrote that "Around 1955, my canvases literally splintered.
Their colors came out of the closet, you might say, to open the rectangles to a
different light. They were prismatic surfaces where I veiled, suggested, and
floated my persistent icons and preoccupations, in another of the thousand ways
of saying the same things" </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ttawz426AGI/T--fQJTuhaI/AAAAAAAAAdc/qnx_6JTYG2Q/s1600/naufrageenrose1958.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ttawz426AGI/T--fQJTuhaI/AAAAAAAAAdc/qnx_6JTYG2Q/s320/naufrageenrose1958.jpg" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
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Naufrage en rose (Shipwreck in Pink)</div>
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1958 | Oil on canvas</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KVrlgZH0pVU/T--fkXC5spI/AAAAAAAAAdk/tkAjPQrVWGc/s1600/Insomnias.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KVrlgZH0pVU/T--fkXC5spI/AAAAAAAAAdk/tkAjPQrVWGc/s320/Insomnias.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
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Insomnies (Insomnias)</div>
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1957 | Oil on canvas</div>
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Moderna Museet, Stockholm</div>
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By the late 60s and into the early 70s, Tanning experimented with soft sculptures. Of one called <i>Canapé en temps de pluie (Sofa on a Rainy Day)</i> she said the work "...was, more than anything, a challenge to myself, a bet that I made with myself, and only me, that I would give real physical life to a bunch of tweeds and stuffing." <span style="font-size: x-small;">Dorothea Tanning: <i>Birthday and Beyond.</i> Exhibition brochure. Philadelphia: Philadelphia Museum of Art, 2000. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MWteqihrE3I/T--nXLcbA2I/AAAAAAAAAd8/ulkxSJn-ees/s1600/HotelduPavot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MWteqihrE3I/T--nXLcbA2I/AAAAAAAAAd8/ulkxSJn-ees/s320/HotelduPavot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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Hôtel du Pavot, Chambre 202 (Poppy Hotel, Room 202 </div>
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Fabric, wool, synthetic fur, cardboard, and Ping-Pong balls</div>
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Musée National d'Art Moderne, Centre Georges Pompidou</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mEQ7scdwg0c/T--1LlIE-iI/AAAAAAAAAeI/mjjpw4D8dqc/s1600/QuietWillow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="276" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mEQ7scdwg0c/T--1LlIE-iI/AAAAAAAAAeI/mjjpw4D8dqc/s320/QuietWillow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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1998 | Oil on canvas | 56 x 66 in.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After the death of Max Ernst in 1976, Tanning felt unable to paint. Her good friend, poet James Merrill, convinced her to work. He “more than anyone at that point of my life, made me realize that living was still wonderful even though I felt that my loss, Max, had left nothing but ashes.” In 1979 she returned to New York and painted for the next 20 years, publishing her first memoir, <i>Birthday,</i> in 1986.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 1998 Dorothea did a series of twelve paintings that were published along with poetry by various writers whose work she admired, </span>Adrienne Rich, John Ashbery, James Merrill, and others, in <i>Another Language of Flowers</i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>.</i> "A new hybrid of flower has always occasioned celebration by gardeners and amateur botanists everywhere. It is hard to think of anything more innocently irresistible than a flower, new or familiar, while an imagined one must surely bring a special frisson of excitement. Or so I thought, on the day in June when such a flower grew in my mind's eye and demanded to be painted. Once begun, the experiment widened into an entire garden. They bloomed all at once, as if to race with a short summer, and soon there were twelve canvases of twelve flowers waiting to be named. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Dorothea Tanning: <i>Birthday and Beyond. </i>Exhibition brochure. Philadelphia: Philadelphia Museum of Art, 2000.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One would think that was a large enough portfolio for anyone. Not so for Dorothea Tanning. In the late 1990s, she began writing poetry and published her first collection, <i>A Table of Content </i>in 2004, and her second, <i>Coming to That, </i>in 2011. Reading her poetry, actually any of her writing, is much like looking at her paintings. She presents life from a different perspective, a little unsettling, but familiar and at times, amusing. If you find yourself on public transportation in New York, you could be inspired by this Tanning poem posted in subway cars for the <i>Poetry in Motion</i> program.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="color: #351c75;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Graduation</span></b><br style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He told us, <i>with the years, you will come</i></span><i style="color: #351c75;"><br style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">to love the world.</span></i><br style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And we sat there with our souls in our laps,</span><br style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;" /><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and comforted them.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> Dorothea Tanning 1910-2012</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is a small sample of the prolific artist, and I have to admit, it was difficult to choose favorites. Why did we not hear more about this remarkable woman? Why is she not as well known as those with whom she lived and worked? I can't answer that, but I can share. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Visit the vast collection of work by <a href="http://www.dorotheatanning.org/index.php" target="_blank">Dorothea Tanning</a> at her website and enjoy. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div>
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Touristes de Prague III (Tourists of Prague III)</div>
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1961 | Oil on canvas | The Menil Collection, Houston</div>
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Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-60197571186880443472012-06-01T07:30:00.000-07:002012-11-29T19:22:28.593-08:00Colette<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">For many, the name Colette conjures vague images of
a French dancer with a questionable reputation...and didn't she do some writing? In the U.S. she is best known for <i>Gigi,</i> published in 1945 when she was seventy-two. There were over fifty novels written before that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Colette was born Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette on January 28,
1873 in Saint-Sauveur-en-Puisaye, France. Her father, Jules-Joseph Colette,
retired from the army and worked as a tax collector. Her mother, <i>A</i>dele
Eugenia Sidonie Landois, Sido<i>—</i>a wise,
down-to-earth <span class="readable"><i>Maman</i></span>—became
known to many through Colette's stories, <i>My
Mother's House</i> and <i>Sido</i><span class="readable">.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gmU6fPtFNuQ/T8f0lSNXOII/AAAAAAAAAb0/Ib1tpVXpP2U/s1600/Claudine_a_l_ecole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gmU6fPtFNuQ/T8f0lSNXOII/AAAAAAAAAb0/Ib1tpVXpP2U/s400/Claudine_a_l_ecole.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">Her first books, the Claudine series, were published between
1900 and 1903 under her husband </span><span style="font-size: small;">Henri Gauthier-Villars</span><span style="font-size: small;">pen's pen name "Willy".
She was 20 when she married Henri, 14 years her senior. It was said that he locked her in a room, refusing to
release her until she'd written a few tantalizing chapters of her escapades at boarding
school. There were five books in the series from which came a line of Claudine products. Everything from </span>cigarettes and perfume to chocolates and cosmetics<span style="font-size: small;"> made Gauthier-Villars a wealthy man. Things did not go as well for Colette who divorced
him in 1906 and supported herself as a dancer and a mime in
Parisian music halls.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">She reportedly pained over every word, and
yet her writing flows sensually whether the topic is food, a garden, or a lover. It is, no doubt, that sensuality that stokes her reputation. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="readable">At a time when women were told to learn to write like men, Colette was </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">unapologetic about her gender or the passion of her writing<span class="readable">. She wrote with the same intensity that she lived, and she lived a </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">remarkable life. </span><span style="font-size: small;">She was equally adept at stunning descriptive prose as she was at sometimes vicious humor. </span><span style="font-size: small;">Her words entice you to love and hate as she does, yearn for a
visit to her childhood home, learn French, or join a group of friends for a long dinner instead of the brief encounters so common these days.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Her efforts did not go unacknowledged. </span><span style="font-size: small;">She was the first woman admitted to the prestigious Goncourt Academy and in 1953 was elected to the Legion of Honour. She died in 1954. I've done a great deal of reading by and about Colette, but she was complex, and it is difficult to judge from her writings what is autobiographical and what is fiction. What I do know is that her writing engages me on many levels. I'll let you judge for yourself. </span><br />
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<i style="color: #073763;"><b>Bella Vista</b></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The night was murmurous and warmer than the day. Three or four lighted windows, the clouded sky patched here and there with stars, the cry of some night bird over this unfamiliar place made my throat tighten with anguish. It was an anguish without depth; a longing to weep which I could master as soon as I felt it rise. I was glad of it because it proved that I could still savor the special taste of loneliness.</span></span><br />
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<i style="color: #073763;"><b>Bygone Spring</b></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Everything rushes onward, and I stay where I am. Do I not already feel more pleasure in comparing this spring with others that are past than in welcoming it? The torpor is blissful enough, but too aware of its own weight. And though my ecstasy is genuine and spontaneous, it no longer finds expression. "Oh, look at those yellow cowslips! And the soapwort! And the unicorn tips of the lords and ladies are showing!..." But the cowslip, that wild primula, is a humble flower, and how can the uncertain mauve of the watery soapwort compare with a glowing peach tree? Its value for me lies in the stream that watered it between my tenth and fifteenth years. The slender cowslip, all stalk and rudimentary in blossom, still clings by a frail root to the meadow where I used to gather hundreds to straddle them along a string and then tie them into round balls, cool projectiles that struck the cheek like a rough wet kiss.</span><br />
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<i style="color: #073763;"><b>October</b></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My thoughts turn to the house, to the fire and the lamp; there are books and cushions and a bunch of dahlias the color of dark blood; in these short afternoons, when the early evenings turn the bay windows blue, decidedly it's time to be indoors. Already on the tops of the walls on the still-warm slates of the roofs, there appear with tails like plumes, wary ears, cautious paws, and arrogant eyes, those new masters of our gardens, the cats.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A long black tom keeps continual watch on the roof of the empty kennel; and the gentle night, blue with motionless mist that smells of kitchen gardens and the smoke of green wood, is peopled with little velvety phantoms. Claws lacerate the barks of trees, and a feline voice, low and hoarse, begins a thrilling lament that never ends. </span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Gzg-y6YFLmc/T8aFKFDd3XI/AAAAAAAAAbg/xEyOYXcz-UA/s1600/mymothershouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Gzg-y6YFLmc/T8aFKFDd3XI/AAAAAAAAAbg/xEyOYXcz-UA/s320/mymothershouse.jpg" width="212" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><i style="color: #073763; font-family: inherit;"><b>My Mother's House</b></i><br /><br />It was not until one morning when I found the kitchen unwarmed and the blue enamel saucepan hanging on the wall, that I felt my mother's end to be near. Her illness knew many respites, during which the fire flared up again on the hearth, and the smell of fresh bread and melting chocolate stole under the door together with the cat's impatient paw. These respites were periods of unexpected alarms. My mother and the big walnut cupboard were discovered together in a heap at the foot of the stairs, she having determined to transport it in secret from the upper landing to the ground floor. Whereupon my elder brother insisted that my mother should keep still and that an old servant should sleep in the little house. But how could an old servant prevail against a vital energy so youthful and mischievous that it contrived to tempt and lead astray a body already half fettered by death? My brother, returning before sunrise from attending a distant patient, one day caught my mother red-handed in the most wanton of crimes. Dressed in her nightgown, but wearing heavy gardening sabots, her little grey septuagenarian's plait of hair turning up like a scorpion's tail on the nape of her neck, one foot firmly planted on the crosspiece of the beech trestle, her back bent in the attitude of the expert jobber, my mother, rejuvenated by an indescribable expression of guilty enjoyment, in defiance of all her promises and of the freezing morning dew, was sawing logs in her own yard.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><br /><i style="color: #073763;"><b>The Vagabond</b></i><br /><br />Come now, this won't do. I'm too clear-sighted this evening, and if I don't pull myself together my dancing will suffer for it. I dance and dance. A beautiful serpent coils itself along the Persian carpet, an Egyptian amphora tilts forward, pouring forth a cascade of perfumed hair, a blue and stormy cloud rises and floats away, a feline beast springs forwards, then recoils, a sphinx, the color of pale sand, reclines at full length, propped on its elbows with hollowed back and straining breasts. I have recovered myself and forget nothing. Do these people really exist, I ask myself? No, they don't. The only real things are dancing, light, freedom, and music. Nothing is real except making rhythm of one's thought and translating it into beautiful gestures. Is not the mere swaying of my back, free from any constraint, an insult to those bodies cramped by their long corsets, and enfeebled by a fashion which insists that they should be thin?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">All that could be seen through the window was the August tide, bringing rain in its wake. The earth came to an abrupt end out there, at the edge of the sand hills. One more squall, one more upheaval of the great grey field furrowed with parallel ridges of foam, and the house would surely float away like the ark…but Phil and Vinca knew the August seas of old and their monotonous thunder, as well as the wild, white-capped seas of September. They knew that this corner of a sandy field would remain impassable, and all through their childhood they had scoffed at the frothy foam-scuds that danced powerlessly up to the edge of man's dominion.</span><br />
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<i style="color: #073763;"><b>The Pure and the Impure</b></i><br />
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Voluptuaries, consumed by their senses, always begin by flinging themselves with a great display of frenzy into an abyss. But they survive, they come to the surface again. And they develop a routine of the abyss: 'It's four o clock. At five I have my abyss...'</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i> Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you're a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff's worth, without pity, and destroy most of it.</i></span></div>
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<i><b><span style="color: #073763;">Cheri</span></b></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Lea, leaning on her elbow, looks at him. In the merciful half-light, she shows what a pretty fifty-year-old woman, well cared for and in good health, can show: the bright complexion, somewhat ruddy and a bit weathered, of a natural blonde, shapely, solid shoulders, and celebrated blue eyes which have kept their thick chestnut lashes. But she is now a redhead, because of her hair, which is turning gray.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She loves to chat in bed, almost invisible, while her magnificent arms and expressive hands comment on her wise words. Nearing the end of a successful career as a sedate courtesan, she is neither sad nor spiteful. She keeps the date of her birth a secret, but willingly admits, as she settles her calm gaze on Cheri, that she is approaching the age when one is permitted little comforts...</span><br />
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Cheri was made into a film in 2009 </div>
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Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-3990043763995685472012-05-01T08:06:00.001-07:002012-12-10T16:41:10.916-08:00The First Fictional Women Sleuths<br />
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Today, the fictional women who fight
crime and solve mysteries are PIs, attorneys, cooks, members of every branch of law enforcement and every imaginable occupation. They are old, young, married, and single, from every race and every corner of the globe. The list
is long and satisfying, but this month, I present some of the earlier
fictional females sleuths created by women writers when neither act was warmly
welcomed.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D7Estd7wMjA/T58DDCNdDAI/AAAAAAAAAXc/Rc1sxu3WtLk/s1600/lovedaybrooke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D7Estd7wMjA/T58DDCNdDAI/AAAAAAAAAXc/Rc1sxu3WtLk/s320/lovedaybrooke.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
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In 1894, author Catherine Louisa Pirkis introduced the
Victorian lady sleuth, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Loveday Brooke</b>
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Experiences of Loveday Brooke,
Lady Detective. </i>Loveday, in her thirties, had been a member of the upper
class until circumstances forced her to earn a living. She was unmarried, bright,
and too easily bored to settle for traditional 'women's work' and became an
agent at a London Detective Agency. Her boss, Ebenezer Dyer had the greatest
respect for her sharp mind and deductive reasoning. At a time when Sherlock
Holmes brought mysteries to the forefront, Loveday Brooke became the most
popular fictional female detective of her day. Pirkis described her "in a
series of negations. She was not tall, she was not short; she was not dark, she
was not fair; she was neither handsome nor ugly. Her features were altogether
nondescript; her one noticeable trait was a habit she had, when absorbed in
thought, of dropping her eyelids over her eyes till only a line of eyeball
showed, and she appeared to be looking out at the world through a slit, instead
of through a window." </div>
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Free HTML copy of <a href="http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/pirkis/brooke/brooke.html" target="_blank">The Experiences of Loveday Brooke, Lady Detective</a>.</div>
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<span style="color: #0c343d;"> </span><span style="color: #660000; font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It would never do for me to lose my wits in the presence of
a man who had none too many of his own.</span></i></span> —Miss Amelia Butterworth</div>
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In 1897, Anna Katharine Green introduced <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Amelia Butterworth</b> in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That Affair Next Door</i>. Butterworth was
the first notable spinster sleuth in fiction. She offered her not completely
welcomed assistance to Green's main character, Detective Ebenezer Gryce of the
New York Police. Unlike Brooke, Butterworth was financially comfortable and had
little to occupy her time other than observing the comings and goings of her
neighbors. It was one of those observations that involved her in a
murder investigation. "I am not an inquisitive
woman, but when, in the middle of a certain warm night in September, I heard a
carriage draw up at the adjoining house and stop, I could not resist the
temptation of leaving my bed and taking a peep through the curtains of my
window."</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--vULnleZgkw/T58Esh81FjI/AAAAAAAAAXs/XSIijg8b5cU/s1600/goldenslipper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--vULnleZgkw/T58Esh81FjI/AAAAAAAAAXs/XSIijg8b5cU/s320/goldenslipper.jpg" width="204" /></a>Although the elderly spinster was seen by most as
nosy, Gryce recognized her ability to spot and evaluate important
details that many missed. Amelia Butterworth appeared again in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lost Man’s Lane,</i> 1898, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Circular Study,</i> 1900. Some believe that Butterworth inspired Patricia
Wentworth's Maud Silver, Agatha Christie's Jane Marple, Mary Roberts Rinehart's
Rachel Innes, and others. </div>
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In 1915, Green created the first girl detective in
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Golden Slipper and Other Problems for
Violet Strange</i>. The character, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Violet
Strange</b>, was a wealthy young woman who took the occasional case to earn
money that didn't come from her father. He was quite unaware of her investigations and she was selective about the ones she accepted. "If you have a case of subtlety without crime, one to engage
my powers without depressing my spirits, I beg you to let me have it." </div>
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<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3071" target="_blank">Download <i>The Golden Slipper</i> from Project Gutenberg.</a></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LJVYF4LZlro/T58FxvoCyOI/AAAAAAAAAX0/zc6h2FjtNQo/s1600/tishscene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LJVYF4LZlro/T58FxvoCyOI/AAAAAAAAAX0/zc6h2FjtNQo/s320/tishscene.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's well enough for you, Tish Carberry, <br />to talk about gripping a horse with your knees</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></td></tr>
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In 1908, Mary Roberts Rinehart, sometimes called 'The
American Agatha Christie,' introduced <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Rachel
Innes</b>, a fifty something spinster heiress in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Circular Staircase</i>. In the novel, Innes, along with her niece
and nephew rent a house for a summer vacation that turns into a complex web of
murder and intrigue that is eventually solved by the heroine. The book became a successful stage play called <i>The Bat.</i> </div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In 1910, Rinehart created a character to voice her
feminist beliefs. </span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="st">Letitia </span>(Tish) Carberry</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> was a
middle aged spinster who along with her friends Aggie and Lizzie behaved in
ways unbecoming and unacceptable in women at the beginning of the 20th
century. They raced cars, hunted, drove
ambulances, and flew airships. Rinehart introduces Tish by explaining an unfavorable newspaper story. "So many unkind things have been said of the affair at Morris Valley that I think it best to publish a straightforward account of everything. The ill nature of the cartoon, for instance, which showed Tish in a pair of khaki trousers on her back under a racing-car was quite uncalled for. Tish did not wear the khaki trousers; she merely took them along in case of emergency. Nor was it true that Tish took Aggie along as a mechanician and brutally pushed her off the car because she was not pumping enough oil. The fact was that Aggie sneezed on a curve and fell out of the car, and would no doubt have been killed had she not been thrown into a pile of sand."</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r4JJ7f53WVM/T58GV5pwgsI/AAAAAAAAAX8/J1PNL90eG8k/s1600/misspinkerton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-r4JJ7f53WVM/T58GV5pwgsI/AAAAAAAAAX8/J1PNL90eG8k/s320/misspinkerton.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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In 1914, we meet <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Hilda
Adams</b>, known as <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Miss Pinkerton</b>,
a nurse who does her fair share of sleuthing. Her detecting career begins in
the story <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Buckled Bag</i>, when a
patient she attends, a detective, suggests she might work for
the police. </div>
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All of Rinehart's female detectives are intelligent and
possess the one absolutely necessary tool for people who live and work outside
the box—a sense of humor. </div>
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<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/434" target="_blank">Download <i>The Circular Staircase</i> at the Gutenberg Project</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3464" target="_blank">Download T<i>ish, The Chronicle of Her Escapades and Excursions</i> at the Gutenberg Project </a></div>
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<b>Millicent Newberry</b>,
created by Jeanette Lee, appeared in three novels beginning in 1917 with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Green Jacket</i>. Unlike many of the
female detectives of the era who worked for other agencies or police
departments, Millicent began working at Tom Corbin's firm, but left to start
her own detective agency. She was single, older, and from a middle class background, and lived with her ailing mother and a caretaker. Along with a great interest in psychiatry, Newberry had a unique approach to taking notes. She would knit while conversing with clients and encode
her notes into the stitches. In 1922 she appeared in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Mysterious Office</i>, and in 1925 in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dead Right.</i> The other unconventional aspect of her practice was that she
decided that if the criminal deserved a second chance, she did not report her findings
to the police.<br />
<i> </i></div>
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<a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=vZMpAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA89&source=gbs_toc_r&cad=4#v=onepage&q&f=false" target="_blank"><i>The Mysterious Office </i>on Google Books online</a></div>
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<a href="http://play.google.com/books/reader?id=3q8XAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&output=reader&hl=en" target="_blank"><i>The Green Jacket</i> on Google Books online </a></div>
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Patricia Wentworth introduced <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Miss Maud Silver</b> in the 1928 mystery <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grey Mask</i> as a secondary character. She was, according to
Wentworth, a person with "small, neat features and the sort of
old-fashioned clothes that were not so much dowdy as characteristic." She
was also known for quoting the Bible and Tennyson. It wasn't until 1937 in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Case is Closed </i>when the retired
governess came into her own as 'a private enquiry agent' often assisting
Scotland Yard, Inspector Abbott. </div>
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In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Death at the Deep
End</i>, book 20 of the 32 books in the series, Abbot described the comfort he
derived from the woman. "Miss Silver, smiling at him from the other side
of the hearth, her hands busy with her knitting, remained a stable point in an
unsettled world. Love God, honour the Queen, keep the law, be kind, be good,
think of others before you think of yourself, serve Justice, speak the truth—by
this simple creed she lived. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Si sic
omnes!...</i>"</div>
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Like so many of the heroines of these early stories, Silver
was effective because she wasn't taken seriously. She was a professional
who relied on deductive reasoning and paid little attention to smug
smiles and subtle or oblique criticism of her looks or skills. </div>
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Dorothy L. Sayers introduced <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Miss Alexandra Katherine "Kitty" Climpson</b> in <i>Unnatural
Death </i>(1927). She owned a secretarial agency nicknamed the Cattery, which Lord
Peter Wimsey helped to establish with an ulterior motive—to use her services in ways that often involved more investigating than filing or stenography. Kitty developed into an intelligent and resourceful member of his investigative
team. It was Miss Climpson's determination and clever planning that solved the
mystery in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Strong Poison</i> (1930) and saved
the life of another Sayers' female character of note, Harriet Vane.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Harriet Deborah Vane</b> was a crime fiction writer who Peter met and fell in love with after she was
arrested for the murder of her boyfriend. That fact that she lived with a man
out of wedlock made her a criminal in the eyes of much of society, and her
career as a writer of police fiction sullied her reputation further. Wimsey
proposed to Vane while she was still in prison, but she refused his offer,
before and after he proved her innocent. She worked with Peter on a case in the
1932 book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Have His Carcase,</i> but it
wasn't until the next Wimsey book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gaudy
Night </i>(1935) that she accepted his proposal. The couple married in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Busman's Honeymoon</i> (1937). Sayers claimed to have introduced
Harriet Vane to marry off Lord Wimsey and end the series, but the couple became
such a hit that she continued their relationship and their characters with even
more passion. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gaudy Night</i> is considered
by some as the first feminist mystery novel, and Sayers did indeed comment on
the growing restrictions on women in Nazi Germany. </div>
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In 1938, Zelda Popkin introduced <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mary Carner</b>, considered the first modern female detective, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Death Wears a White Gardenia</i>. Carner was
a member of the security staff of a department store in New York City. According to Popkin, "Mary looked like year before last's debutante,
last June's bride, this year's young matron. Prospective shoplifters,
hesitating before a haul, never guessed that the pretty, well-groomed young
woman in the oxford gray suit and kolinsky scarf, standing beside them at the
counter, was far more interested in the behavior of their nimble fingers than
in the quality of the step-ins, marked down from five-ninety-eight to three and
a half."</div>
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I had not read this series, but after reading the <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=P47yuJwGCfkC&dq=Time+off+for+Murder&source=gbs_navlinks_s" target="_blank">Time Off for Murder (1943) preview on Google books</a>, have added them to my 'to read' pile. The series: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Murder in the Mist,</i>
1940; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dead Man’s Gift,</i> 1941; and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No Crime for a Lady</i>, 1942.
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“You
do not conceive a novel as easily as you conceive a child, nor even half as
easily as you create nonfiction work. A journalist amasses facts, anecdotes and
interviews with top brass. Enough of these add up to a book. A novelist demands
quite different things. He has to find himself in his materials, to know for
sure how he would feel and act and the events he writes about. In addition, he
requires a catalyst—a person, idea, or emotion which coalesces his ingredients
and makes them jell into a solid purpose.” ―Zelda Popkin</div>
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And last, but not least, the most familiar member of our
female sleuth club, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Miss Jane Marple</b>.
Agatha Christie introduced the well meaning meddler in 1926 in a magazine
piece called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tuesday Night Club</i>. The
story eventually became the first chapter of the 1932 book <i>The Thirteen Problems, </i>but it was in 1930, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Murder at the Vicarage</i>, where we first visited Jane in her home
town of St. Mary Mead. Dame Christie revealed in her autobiography that the
inspiration for Marple: "the sort of old lady who would have been
rather like some of my grandmother's Ealing cronies—old ladies whom I have met
in so many villages where I have gone to stay as a girl"</div>
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We spend our lives solving puzzles, problems, and mysteries of various
kinds. It is no surprise that the intuitive abilities to which women
readily turn, offer some of the best solutions.<br />
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As you may have guessed, this post was a pleasure to research and share. Because of these women, (and others there wasn't room to list) the very popular category of 'female sleuth' continues to entertain and delight readers around the world. That is great inspiration for someone who has only been writing mysteries since 2004. I am humbled, inspired, and anxious to continue learning from these remarkable voices.<br />
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Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-42079635117147777972012-03-01T09:10:00.001-08:002012-12-10T16:38:59.466-08:00Mary Cassatt<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Id9XVhgwCbM/T0qA_ZmCZ4I/AAAAAAAAASI/EW5aJw3LAXM/s1600/Degasportrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Id9XVhgwCbM/T0qA_ZmCZ4I/AAAAAAAAASI/EW5aJw3LAXM/s320/Degasportrait.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Portrait of Mary Cassatt Holding Cards<br />
Edgar Degas c. 1876–1878 oil on canvas</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It was during my research for this post that t</span><span style="font-size: small;"></span><span style="font-size: small;">he current round of attacks on women</span><span style="font-size: small;"> came to the forefront, reminding me </span><span style="font-size: small;">that the struggle is an old one. The Women's Rights Movement </span><span style="font-size: small;"></span><span style="font-size: small;">in the United States </span><span style="font-size: small;">began </span><span style="font-size: small;">at a convention</span><span style="font-size: small;"> in Seneca Falls, New York i</span><span style="font-size: small;">n 1848</span><span style="font-size: small;">. Sixty-eight women and thirty-two men adopted resolutions calling for equal treatment under the law and voting rights for women. Mary Cassatt was four, but in a short time, her rebellion </span><span style="font-size: small;">against societal and artistic convention would </span><span style="font-size: small;">help redefine the role of women. What an immense loss to the art world had she not been 'allowed' to paint. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Born on May 22, 1844 in Allegheny City, Pennsylvania, Mary's well-to-do family believed travel was an important part of a child's education. Perhaps it was this early exposure to Europe's abundant art resources that prompted her to become an artist. Or perhaps the limited options available to wealthy young women of her time compelled her to enroll in the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. The choice to have a career rather than a family was her first challenge. The decision to participate in a male dominated field, the second.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7hBAUV60ad4/T0q2Dsucq5I/AAAAAAAAASY/84-lyyvyV9o/s1600/idasmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7hBAUV60ad4/T0q2Dsucq5I/AAAAAAAAASY/84-lyyvyV9o/s200/idasmall.jpg" width="150" /></a></i></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Spanish Dancer Lace Mantilla <br />
1873 Mary Cassatt oil on canvas <br />
<a href="http://americanart.si.edu/collections/search/artwork/?id=3835" target="_blank">Smithsonian American Art Museum</a></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I</span> can only imagine the prejudice she faced. My own, much less brutal experience came in 1970 when I began studying graphic arts. I was stunned to hear one of our instructors question the women in the class as to why they even bothered. According to him, Commercial Art, (as it was called at the time), was a male occupation and women should be home…well, you know the rest. Needless to say, I continued doing graphics, and luckily for all of us, Mary Cassatt ignored critics and continued painting. It is interesting to note that she studied at the Academy from 1861 to 1865, the Civil War years.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wK6zhUU2Vjg/T0q5_u6e9aI/AAAAAAAAASg/IcNKYxMHqU0/s1600/twowomen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wK6zhUU2Vjg/T0q5_u6e9aI/AAAAAAAAASg/IcNKYxMHqU0/s200/twowomen.jpg" width="170" /></a></td></tr>
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During Carnival<br />
Mary Cassatt oil on canvas 1872</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In 1866, she further sullied her reputation by moving to Paris, considered the center of the art world. To many conservative Americans, it was a city of sin. Although enrolled in private lessons, she felt stifled and spent most of her time in museums studying and copying the Old Masters. The beginning of the Franco Prussian War in 1870 sent her, unwillingly, back to the United States where her artistic temperament was less tolerated. For sixteen months, she received no support from her family beyond room and board, and had no money to buy art supplies. What was worse, America, not yet a nation known for collections of fine art, offered little to study. She struggled to mount exhibitions and sell previous works to return to Europe. In 1871 Cassatt managed to show two paintings, first in New York and then Chicago, only to have them lost in the flames that destroyed the great Midwestern city.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EcD4zhsD6g4/T0rIA79HMUI/AAAAAAAAAS4/daIsjSMwLT8/s1600/In_the_box.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EcD4zhsD6g4/T0rIA79HMUI/AAAAAAAAAS4/daIsjSMwLT8/s320/In_the_box.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A Corner of the Loge (In the Box)<br />
Mary Cassatt 1879 Oil on canvas<br />
Private collection</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Ironically, it was the Archbishop of Pittsburgh who rescued the artist by commissioning her to copy paintings of <span class="st">Antonio Allegri da </span>Correggio in Parma, Italy. She was beside herself with joy, not only to be painting again, but to savor the abundance of art treasures. Her return was a triumph, and the <i>Salon de Paris</i> exhibited her paintings from 1872–1874. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In 1874 she saw her first impressionist pieces at a show by Edgar Degas. Years later she wrote to her friend and patron, Louisine Havemeyer, “How well I remember, nearly forty years ago, seeing for the first time Degas’ pastels in the window of a picture dealer on the Boulevard Haussmann. I used to go and flatten my nose against that window and absorb all I could of his art. It changed my life. I saw art then as I wanted to see it.” That same year, Degas saw her work <i>Ida,</i> at the Salon and invited her to the <i>Société Anonyme des Artistes,</i> often called the Independents. The rest of the art world called them the Impressionists. The Salon jurists, often criticized for their conventional tastes and constraints on artists, made her decision easy. Only three women were invited to join the Independents, and only one American, Mary Cassatt. She showed in 1879, 1880, 1881, and in the group's final show in 1886.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P1_DkSm5MFs/T0q8Ihrs69I/AAAAAAAAASw/mYimJegUyZw/s1600/Woman+bathingprint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P1_DkSm5MFs/T0q8Ihrs69I/AAAAAAAAASw/mYimJegUyZw/s320/Woman+bathingprint.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Woman Bathing (La Toilette)<br />
Mary Cassatt 1890-1891 <br />
Drypoint and aquatint from three plates</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Her success continued until in late 1881 she had to return home to care for her sister and mother who were both ill. Although her mother recovered, her sister Lydia, who had battled illness throughout her life, did not. The usually prolific Cassatt produced little over the next years, but began advising Havemeyer and other American friends and family to collect impressionist art. In 1886, she entered two of her paintings in the first impressionist exhibition in the United States. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_NuuR71hZbA/T0rKjlNyzsI/AAAAAAAAATA/tjpiUigu-v4/s1600/The_Boating_Party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_NuuR71hZbA/T0rKjlNyzsI/AAAAAAAAATA/tjpiUigu-v4/s320/The_Boating_Party.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Boating Party, <br />
Mary Cassatt 1893/1894 </i><i>oil on canvas </i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.nga.gov/collection/gallery/ggcassattptg/ggcassattptg-46569.html" target="_blank">National Gallery of Art</a></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Even while working to bring the </span>avant–garde <span style="font-size: small;"> style to the United States, the drive to grow as an artist moved her away from the 'Independents'. She no longer identified with any group or movement. In 1890, after viewing the Japanese print exhibition in Paris, Cassatt decided to learn printmaking techniques. Within a year, she produced a series of etchings for color prints that some believe were her greatest contribution as an artist. The training in printmaking also influenced her painting style. She began to incorporate blocks of color, simple design, and movement, rather than the softer, sketchier forms of her earlier, impressionistic pieces.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-He6AuEGvIg4/T0qFNWYz0BI/AAAAAAAAASQ/v_ywXmblxag/s1600/The_Child%27s_Bath_by_Mary_Cassatt_1893.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-He6AuEGvIg4/T0qFNWYz0BI/AAAAAAAAASQ/v_ywXmblxag/s320/The_Child%27s_Bath_by_Mary_Cassatt_1893.jpg" width="208" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Child's Bath<br />
Mary Cassatt 1893 oil on canvas<br />
<a href="http://www.artic.edu/aic/collections/artwork/111442?search_id=19" target="_blank">Courtesy of the Art Institute of Chicago</a></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It was also around this time that she began working with pastels. Of all her work, the pastel drawings are my favorite. Using an unhesitating flow of color to capture the essence of her models, they are as alive today as they were over 100 years ago. But it was <i>The Child's Bath,</i> an oil painting produced in 1893 and part of the permanent collection at the Art Institute of Chicago, where I first encountered and fell in love with the work of Mary Cassatt. I</span><span style="font-size: small;">n her later paintings and drawings</span><span style="font-size: small;">, the children are the main attraction. They are bored, distracted, and often limp from the weight of being a child. This at a time when children were represented and glorified as little grownups. Cassatt saw and painted them as kids. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">By 1912 Mary had been diagnosed with diabetes and cataracts. In 1914, after several unsuccessful eye operations, she stopped painting. She died in 1926 and is buried in the family vault in France. If you would like to see more, (and I recommend you do), check out the collection at <a href="http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/mary-cassatt" target="_blank">Wikipaintings.org </a></span></div>
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Mary Cassatt 1894 Pastel on Paper<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Mary Cassatt was accused of being outspoken and self-centered. Degas, Monet, and other artists of the time who displayed those traits were considered eccentric. Critics even suggested that her detached and unsentimental renderings were not natural in a woman. Sometimes, you just can't win.</span><br />
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Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-44600709058719992842012-02-01T08:14:00.000-08:002013-08-20T07:20:35.480-07:00Madge Tennent<div style="color: #073763; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>This month, please welcome friend and guest blogger, Madge Walls, sharing a story about her grandmother, artist, Madge Tennent. Thank you, Madge(s), for this delightful piece of history.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Shortly after I arrived at the University of Oregon in 1961 to begin my freshman year, I embarked on a challenge that would have been impossible in my hometown of Honolulu. I took a long slow walk diagonally across the campus, from corner to corner, looking everyone I passed in the eye and daring them to recognize me. Of course no one did, and that was the point. I wasn’t famous in Honolulu, but my grandmother was, and we shared the same name. Our family was well known, and I couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized as her granddaughter. In Oregon I was blessedly anonymous for the first time in my life.<br />
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Once when a mainland college friend was working for the summer at First Hawaiian Bank, she cashed a check for my grandfather. The check read “Madge or Hugh Tennent.” Aghast, she asked the white-haired old gentleman if he was married to Madge Tennent. “Of course,” he said. “Have been for 45 years.” When his response rendered her speechless, Granddad realized she must have known me and thought I was married to my grandfather. He thought it was funny. I didn’t.<br />
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Being much older now than my grandparents were at the time of the bank incident, I look back with gratitude at the example of my groundbreaking grandmother, who set out to create a unique artistic statement, never deviated from her goal, and succeeded monumentally.</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8BWKOiXEZ8k/TyiQNP0627I/AAAAAAAAAPs/1Qocyi4Knsc/s1600/hawgirfeathsm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8BWKOiXEZ8k/TyiQNP0627I/AAAAAAAAAPs/1Qocyi4Knsc/s200/hawgirfeathsm.jpg" width="158" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Mention the name “Madge Tennent” to a resident of Hawaii, and you’ll conjure up in his mind a kaleidoscope of swirling colors that slowly take the shape of massive Hawaiian bodies at rest, at work, and at play. In the next instant, the vibrant colors dissolve, and he sees the delicate wisps of a line drawing, white ink on black, twelve rhythmic strokes that capture the essence of young Polynesian beauty. This image in turn bursts into the bold statement of a hefty matriarch delineated by freestyle sepia “featherbrush strokes,” a term coined to describe yet another Tennent trademark style.<br />
</span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zfyXC30EQgo/TyiUILx5sUI/AAAAAAAAAQs/qb_DObGnfX4/s1600/hawgirlsm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zfyXC30EQgo/TyiUILx5sUI/AAAAAAAAAQs/qb_DObGnfX4/s320/hawgirlsm.jpg" width="209" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Often referred to as Hawaii’s Gauguin, Madge Tennent (1889-1972) was unswerving in her devotion to the beauty of the Hawaiian people with pen, brush, and palette knife. She left behind an extensive body of work that explores and preserves this unique people in a riot of color and grace of line that only genius and love could have produced.<br />
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She was born in London and raised in Capetown, South Africa, by parents who recognized her artistic talent at an early age. When she was 13 and had exhausted the possibilities for artistic schooling in Capetown, these extraordinary parents (her father owned a construction business; her mother was the editor of a women’s fashion magazine) moved the family to Paris where she studied under William Beaugereau. On the days when she was not in his studio, she haunted the galleries and museums, sketchbook in hand, absorbing everything she could from the classical and impressionistic masters.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Two years later they returned to Capetown, where Madge taught art and illustrated fashion magazines until she met a dashing officer in the Natal Light Brigade, Hugh Tennent. They married and returned to his home, New Zealand, where she led the haphazard life of an army camp follower until their first son Arthur was born in 1916. Hugh went off to war in Europe and returned with a seriously wounded hand, making him a candidate for government service in another arena.<br />
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The young family was sent to Western Samoa, which had become a New Zealand protectorate after the war, with Hugh as the treasurer of the territory. Their second son, Val, my father, was born there in Apia<br />
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During their six idyllic years in Samoa, Madge found endless hours to perfect her sketching technique, as well as an enthusiastic supply of languorous models to sit for her. This was the beginning of her joyous exploration of the Polynesian form.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The Tennents arrived in Honolulu with their two young sons in 1923, planning on a three-day stop before continuing on to London to enroll the boys in a proper British boarding school. Almost immediately they were introduced to members of the local artistic community, who saw her Samoan studies and begged her to stay and paint the Hawaiians. She needed no further persuasion than a good look at the fabled scenery and a nod from her husband.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> As a chartered accountant (the British equivalent of a CPA), Hugh was unable to work until he put in a year of residency. Madge supported the family by doing watercolor portraits, mostly of society children. She kept a studio downtown on Hotel Street, which she only later discovered was in the red light district. Mothers apparently thought enough of her work to overlook the neighborhood when they brought their children for their sittings, and of course they only came during the daytime.<br />
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By the end of the year, she was so sick of painting to please others that she vowed never to put herself in that position again. Hugh was fond of saying that many times the cost of her paints came near to breaking them, but he supported her enthusiastically and she never backed down.<br />
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Madge was fascinated by the Hawaiians from the beginning, but true inspiration struck when she was given a book of colored reproductions by Paul Gauguin in Tahiti. From that time on she devoted herself to the single-minded pursuit of the splendor of this remarkable people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Tennent’s importance in the history of world art is based, then, on more than her undeniable talent. She chose to concentrate on one subject and work full-time to investigate, explore, study, and examine every facet of the female Hawaiian physique.<br />
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She evolved a unique style that was often controversial in her lifetime and freely exaggerated to make her aesthetic point. One of her favorite stories was of a society dinner party that broke up over a heated discussion of her work, including whether or not it was a downright insult to the Hawaiian people. I choose to believe that she has single-handedly preserved their unique beauty for all time.<br />
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"Larger than life," "swirling masses of color," "rhythm in the round"—these are terms that only hint at the effect of her massive oil paintings. Yet she was equally as capable of distilling the essence of Hawaiian femininity in a few fluid pen strokes.<br />
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Tennent was the first artist to see in the Hawaiians a unique artistic statement. Previous artists in the Islands tended to portray them as Europeans with dark skin and hair, dressed in native costume to make their point. By remaining true to her vision, Tennent served as an inspiration to the many artists who today have made the Hawaiian face and figure a popular and understood subject. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Over the years she was very active in the arts community in Honolulu, taught frequent classes at the Honolulu Academy of Arts, and wrote for publication on art-related subjects. Her Autobiography of <i>An Unarrived Artist</i> was published by Columbia University Press in 1949 and has become a collector’s item.<br />
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Major collections of her work are found at the Honolulu Academy of Arts, the University of Hawaii, and the Isaacs Art Center in Waimea. She is represented at the H. M. de Young Museum in San Francisco and the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. During her lifetime she exhibited tirelessly on the Mainland and in Europe.<br />
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A major oil entitled "Local Color" was prominently featured in the opening exhibit of the National Gallery for Women in the Arts in Washington, D. C., along with a collection of her portraits of Hawaiian royalty, in 1987. Tennent’s inclusion in this event received extensive national press coverage.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The greatest repository of her work, however, is in the homes of Hawaii’s old-time residents and their heirs, who received them as gifts from the artist or purchased them for a few dollars at her favorite charity events. Accepting but saddened by the fact that her work did not sell well during her lifetime, she was always tickled when she succeeded in giving it away for a worthy cause.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Just a few days before her death in 1972, Tennent summed up her philosophy of life and art for a newspaper reporter who interviewed her, frail and blind, at a private nursing home overlooking Diamond Head. He asked her, "How does it feel, Mrs. Tennent, to have your genius publicly recognized during your lifetime?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> "Genius, baloney," she muttered, with all the strength she could muster. "It was nothing but darn hard work." </span><br />
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<i>Madge Tennent Walls was raised in Hawaii and raised her children on Maui, where she was a Realtor and real estate instructor for many years. She currently lives just south of Portland, Oregon, where she is a freelance indexer of nonfiction books <a href="http://allksyindexing.com/">http://allksyindexing.com</a> and writes memoirs for folks who would like to preserve their life stories for the generations to come. <a href="http://memoirsbymadeline.com/">http://memoirsbymadeline.com</a>. She is also the author of an award-winning novel of Maui, </i>Paying the Price<i>. And no, she can’t and doesn’t paint.</i><br />
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Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-34417314307284920632012-01-01T08:49:00.000-08:002014-04-26T21:06:25.823-07:00Women Pilots in World War II—WASP<br />
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In 2006, while researching the 1940s for a mystery, I came across an article on the Women Airforce Service Pilots. I had never heard of the female pilots and was fascinated by their story. So much so that I dropped the current work in progress and began <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Woman in the Wing</i>, a novel involving women pilots and Rosie the Riveters in the Second World War. New to writing, but determined to promote their story, I decided to present it as a mystery, the genre I knew best. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ny8v8m6feDw/Tvzbd_AM9eI/AAAAAAAAAMc/07vtst-Kmh0/s1600/group.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ny8v8m6feDw/Tvzbd_AM9eI/AAAAAAAAAMc/07vtst-Kmh0/s320/group.JPG" height="224" width="320" /></a>The story takes place in 1944 at the Douglas Aircraft factory outside of Chicago, one of the plants producing C-54 transport planes. Today the site is O’Hare Airport and although the Douglas plant was there, the WASP training camp depicted in the book was not. The only actual training base was Avenger Field in Sweetwater, Texas. The fictional adventure offers a glimpse into the lives of US women who served at home during World War II—and there were many. Two hundred thousand women enlisted in the military, and twelve million, many who had never worked outside their homes, took jobs in factories, shipyards, offices, and as civilian workers on military bases. They preformed jobs that no one, often including the women, expected they could do. Many took on familiar roles, such as sewing flags, uniforms, and parachutes, but others were mechanics, cryptographers, welders, and the most famous, Rosie the Riveter, who became a symbol for all women workers.</div>
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<b>The WASP</b></div>
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In September 1942, Nancy Harkness Love, a 28-year-old pilot, convinced Air Transport Command to let her collect and train already licensed women to fly as civilian ferrying pilots, moving planes from factories to air bases around the country. These 27 recruits, the first women to fly US military planes, belonged to the Women's Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron, the WAFS. In 1943, Airforce General Hap Arnold merged this group with the Women’s Flying Training Detachment, WFTD, led by Jackie Cochran. They became the Women Airforce Service Pilots, a non-military organization that Congress maintained throughout its existence, was an experiment. The WASP program was not an experiment to the twenty-five thousand who women applied, or to the almost two thousand who qualified and trained. It certainly was not an experiment to the over 1,000 successful graduates who earned their wings and tested and ferried nearly 12,650 military aircraft, flew over 60 million miles, and completed other piloting jobs to free up men for active service.</div>
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After graduating and receiving their silver wings, the WASP lived and worked at one hundred and twenty bases around the country. They wore uniforms that followed strict military code and took orders as if they served in the armed forces. They did not. As civilians, they had no life or accident insurance, no death benefits and could not be buried in a military cemetery or receive a burial with flags and honors. They paid their own way to the base, and if discharged, their own way home. When the program ended, the women had to find and pay for their transportation home. WASP could achieve no rank of significance outside their organization, nor could they give orders to men. Federal law prohibited women from flying military planes into combat or outside the boundaries of the United States. They transported every make of airplane in the American armament, including training, pursuit, and transport planes, along with fighters, and bombers. Thirty-eight WASP died serving their country.</div>
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As the Allies gained control in Europe, Americans returned home and the experiment ended. Women were expected to relinquish their jobs whether as pipe fitters or pilots to the returning men. It was nearly impossible for the women to find employment in aviation after the war. Some opted to join the military, some found work teaching aviation, but most returned to their previous lives. Search the internet for their individual stories. Even those who never returned to the sky remember their time in the WASP as some of the best days of their lives. Each of their stories are fascinating and inspiring. </div>
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The two women largely responsible for the WASP continued in aviation. After the establishment of the United States Air Force in 1948, Nancy Love was made a Lieutenant Colonel in the Reserves. In May, 1953, Jackie Cochran flew a Canadair F-86 Sabre jet at an average speed of 652 mph and became the first woman pilot to break the sound barrier. In the 1960s, Cochran became involved with the Mercury 13 program to promote training for women astronauts. Although a number of women passed or exceeded the achievements of male astronauts, NASA canceled the program. Astronauts John Glenn and Scott Carpenter spoke to Congress against admitting women. </div>
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Women's roles rated little more than a footnote in the volumes of history books written about World War II. That was even truer for the WASP. After deactivation, the Pentagon ordered the files sealed and the information classified. For over thirty years, no one talked, wrote, or learned about the women pilots. Just before the program ended, WASP stationed at Maxwell Field in Alabama formed a group called the Order of Fifinella. They didn't know at the time that the organization would play a big part in coordinating efforts to help the pilots gain Veteran status. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b>Drawing: </b>Fifinella, the female gremlin designed by Walt Disney for a proposed film from Roahl Dahl's book, "The Gremlins". During WWII, the WASP asked for permission to use her as the official mascot and Disney agreed. </i></div>
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In the 1950s a few of the women made claims to the Veterans' Administration for injuries incurred while in the WASP. One pilot who requested assistance because of deafness caused by flying pursuit planes was not only denied, but scolded for making the request since she wasn't a veteran. An announcement by the Air Force in 1977 that ten female graduates would be the first women to fly U.S. military planes stirred up a number of retired WASP. Members of the Order of Fifinella and other pilots gathered signatures for support of a bill to give WASP veteran status. Assistance came from such diverse supporters as William Randolph Hearst and Good Housekeeping magazine, and in November of 1977, the House and Senate passed the WASP veterans status bill and President Jimmy Carter signed it into law. In 1979, the WASP received an official honorary discharge, and on July 1, 2009, President Obama signed S.614 awarding the Congressional Gold Medal, the nation's highest civilian honor, to the Women Airforce Service Pilots. The bill comes 65 years after women first piloted military planes. About 175 WASP and more than 2,000 representatives of deceased pilots were at the ceremony.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w0q1H2Ie6P0/TvzeiEhHQMI/AAAAAAAAANA/0hncfkt-ecU/s1600/waspobama.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w0q1H2Ie6P0/TvzeiEhHQMI/AAAAAAAAANA/0hncfkt-ecU/s320/waspobama.JPG" height="207" width="320" /></a>Learn more about heroines of WWII:</div>
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● <a href="http://www.wingsacrossamerica.us/" target="_blank">Wings Across America</a> where you can find out more about the WASP.<br />
● <a href="http://www.wwii-women-pilots.org/" target="_blank">Andy's WASP Web Pages</a><a href="http://wwii-women-pilots.org/"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;"></span></a><br />
● <a href="http://www.womeninwwii.com/" target="_blank">Women During WWII</a> fighting on the home front and overseas is a great site for all women including WASP and Rosies<br />
● <a href="http://www.twu.edu/library/wasp.asp" target="_blank">Texas Woman's University</a> <br />
● <a href="http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/flygirls/" target="_blank">PBS Documentary Flygirls</a></div>
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<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: inherit;">The Kindle version of <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Woman-Wing-ebook/dp/B001F515JE/ref=sr_1_1_title_1_kin?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1341789163&sr=1-1&keywords=The+Woman+in+the+Wing" target="_blank">The Woman in the Wing</a></i>
is available at Amazon.com. Learn about the brave women
who served on the home front in WWII and enjoy a mystery!</span></div>
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<a href="https://plus.google.com/107265266396869960548" rel="author">Jean Sheldon Mystery Writer</a><br />
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Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-1248831985673973412011-12-01T07:59:00.000-08:002014-05-18T15:18:51.457-07:00Alice Lynn<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There are times when a single event can change a person's life forever. If it occurs in latter years, the impact, though not lessened, finds fewer days upon which to cast its shadow. </i>Scattered Pieces<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> begins on May 15, 1946 when eight-year-old Katie Harris feels her younger brother Jimmy's fingers slip from hers in a crowded train station. He disappears. What follows in this deftly penned novel is not as much an examination of the case, as a study of the effect of one split second on the lives of Katie and her family and friends. It is a book that I tried numerous times to put down at the end of a chapter only to find myself involved, concerned, and curious enough to keep turning pages. Lynn does a solid job of introducing complex psychological concepts and uses a well mixed and believable group of characters to portray human quarks and foibles akin to those we see in our own tribes. I was moved throughout the story by the depth of Katie's emotional struggles as she maneuvered through life with the weight of her enormous and painfully human guilt. </i></div>
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The above text is from a review I wrote about Alice Lynn's third novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scattered Pieces</i>. It was also the third Lynn book I had the opportunity to read. I'll share more about those shortly. First, meet Alice Lynn. </div>
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A native Oregonian, Alice was born in 1937 into what she calls 'a marriage on the verge of divorce'. Within two months of her arrival, she and her four siblings found themselves living with their mother in Salem, Oregon. Though physically distanced by the break up, the family remained close. Alice recalls with gratitude that honor and courtesy were among the values provided by her parents, along with a love for poetry, art, music, and literature. Growing up in a small Willamette Valley town, Alice's interests ranged from horseback riding and amateur theatrics, to sculpting, gardening, and sewing. Her love of books was a gift from her mother, and her <span style="color: black;">passion for writing began when after discovering Nancy Drew and Tom Sawyer, she wrote her first story. For Alice, w</span>riting came without effort, and although other interests, such as painting and drawing, provided creative release, the passion to write burned on. That passion helped her not only to create, but to survive the unimaginable, the loss of two children in separate, tragic accidents. Like that of the protagonist in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scattered Pieces,</i> they were moments that changed her life forever. </div>
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From <a href="http://alicelynn.wordpress.com/">Alice's Blog</a>:</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Joseph was a romantic. He was handsome, kind, and funny. He could tell jokes that made you laugh. He could relate a story so poignant it would make you cry. So today as I brought flowers to the place where his ashes are interred and looked at beautiful young face smiling from the photo beneath his name, I still could not believe he has truly departed from this world.</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What do you say to a loved one who passed on? Can he or she hear what you say? Can they see your face as you say it? Nevertheless, I turned my gaze to the clear blue sky and asked that however far he has traveled in that mysterious realm that awaits us all, that he return to greet me as I cross that boundary. I could almost see him, a glowing figure surrounded by a nimbus of light, a vision to sustain me until that wondrous day.</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">As I write these lines, my classical radio station begins Danny Boy, one of the songs played at Joe's service. A message? I’d like to think so.</i></div>
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In what might seem a major shift from her creative inclinations, Alice went back to school and graduated with a degree in psychology from Marylhurst University in 1999. Today, she lives in Beaver Creek, Oregon with her husband and cats, and is working on her fourth novel to be released in 2012. It has been a gift for me to meet so many wonderful local authors, to read their books and discuss the painful, joyful, and often insane process of writing. Alice is a wonderful addition to that very special gift.</div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">Scattered Pieces</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;">Alice calls herself a dreamer. Since all of her stories were inspired by dreams, I'd say that is a fairly accurate description. Her most recent title, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scattered Pieces,</i> was actually derived from two separate dreams. One concerned a little boy who became separated from his father at a train station, and in the second, a little girl appeared wheeling an empty buggy and looking for her brother. </span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When Katie’s little brother is snatched in 1946 it tears her family apart. It’s only through her friendship with the irrepressible Marilyn and Marilyn’s handsome brother Tom that she navigates a lonely childhood. In college, studying psychology helps Katie understand her mother’s mental illness and her own fears. And it leads to a client who may know something about her brother’s disappearance.</i> </div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;">The print book will be released soon. Digital versions are available at <a href="http://amzn.to/ScatteredPieces">Amazon.com</a>, </span></span><a href="http://bit.ly/BNScatteredPieces">Barnes & Noble</a>, and <a href="http://bit.ly/SmashwordsSP">Smashwords</a>. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wrenn, Egypt House</i> </b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wrenn, Egypt House</i> is described by the publisher as historical romance, but to me, the story of Wrenn Bartlett is an adventure. She is a headstrong, passionate woman at the turn of the century, a time when those qualities were considered a detriment. The story takes place in Portland, Oregon and New York City. As a new comer to the northwest, I found the history of the area and the detailed descriptions of the Lewis and Clark Exposition in 1905 fascinating and informative. As in all Lynn's books, there are a number of unique characters who are believable enough to love or hate, whichever is appropriate, and skillfully constructed settings disappear into the background unnoticed. </div>
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<i>Wrenn, Egypt House </i>is a journey of romance and personal growth set in turn-of-the-twentieth-century Portland, Oregon. Wrenn fell in love with Egypt House as a child. Later, through a connection with the Hunters, who own the great mansion, she finds that relationships, however ideal on the surface, have hidden depths and secrets. You don’t always fall in love with the right man—at first. Wrenn’s adventures lead her to New York, where she is treated to the opera, riding lessons in Central Park, and finally to heartbreak when her dreams dissolve and reality intrudes. Returning to Portland, Wrenn struggles to resume her working-class life against the backdrop of the 1905 Lewis & Clark Exposition. It is there, in The Streets of Cairo exhibition, that she realizes her destiny. <a href="http://go2.wordpress.com/?id=725X584219&site=alicelynn.wordpress.com&xs=1&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.amazon.com%2FWrenn-Egypt-House-Alice-Lynn%2Fdp%2F1592993516%2Fref%3Dsr_1_1%3Fie%3DUTF8%26s%3Dbooks%26qid%3D1294086742%26sr%3D8-1&sref=http%3A%2F%2Falicelynn.wordpress.com%2Fwrenn-egypt-house%2F">Print book at Amazon.com</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wrenn-Egypt-House-ebook/dp/B0042JUA9Q/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1294086742&sr=8-2">Kindle ebook at Amazon.com</a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volunteer for Glory</i></b></div>
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I was not familiar with battles and events during the bleak time in our nation's history known as the Civil War, and to be honest, I wasn't sure if I would enjoy a historically accurate account. I couldn't have been more wrong. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volunteer for Glory</i> is a well researched historical novel, but it is also, I'm guessing, an accurate glimpse into the hearts and minds of not only the volunteers, but those left behind who struggled to keep families and farms together. Lynn transported me to another time and place and once again gave me a great story and a well rounded history lesson. </div>
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Civil War historical data and battle scenes mix with scenes of life during wartime. When Rachel's husband, Stuart, joins the Union cavalry after Fort Sumter, she will have to find the grit and determination to survive on their small Illinois farm. What she doesn't expect is to fall in love with a handsome young neighbor. United in war, the two men are divided by love for the same woman. Who will Rachel choose? Or will the war make the decision for her? <a href="http://go2.wordpress.com/?id=725X584219&site=alicelynn.wordpress.com&xs=1&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.amazon.com%2FVolunteer-for-Glory-ebook%2Fdp%2FB004SPW8TY%2Fref%3Dsr_1_1%3Fie%3DUTF8%26qid%3D1301779972%26sr%3D8-1&sref=http%3A%2F%2Falicelynn.wordpress.com%2Fwrenn-egypt-house%2F">Available at Amazon.com</a> <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Volunteer-for-Glory/Alice-Lynn/e/2940012372857/?itm=1&USRI=volunteer+for+glory">Available at Barnes&Noble</a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Alice's thoughts and a few tips on writing from an interview with LJ Kentowski on <a href="http://www.ljwrites.com/2011/11/special-guest-alice-lynn-author-of.html">L.J. Writes</a></b></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;">I love seeing events and characters unfold in my imagination and take shape on the page. And it’s pure bliss when things come together in a serendipitous flow.</span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;">I think the first thing is to forget the great authors. Read them, yes. Admire them, yes. Learn from them, yes. Then forget them. Write out of your own heart and vision. If you are genuinely moved and intrigued by your story and characters, it is likely other people will be as well.</span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;">Last, never skimp on rewrites or edits. Join a critique group you’re comfortable with. Enlist fellow writers or avid readers to read your beta versions. Express yourself as well as you possibly can. Once your manuscript is relatively polished, you can install a voice program in your word processing program that will read each sentence aloud. It’s not great theater, but if you follow the script as the voice pronounces each word, you will more easily find typos, missing or extra words, and tense inconsistencies. You’ll hear and see it when sentences or paragraphs don’t make sense; or not the sense you wanted.</span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">Why Alice writes</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;">Maybe because I'm greedy. I want to live more than just one life. When I write, I can put myself into another person and explore their world and their thoughts. </span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">On reading</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black;">It's a great way to time travel. You can live in the past, in different countries and cultures; you can even live in the future. It's all about adventure.</span></span></div>
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Connect with Alice online:</div>
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Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/AliceRuthLynn" title="https://twitter.com/AliceRuthLynn">https://twitter.com/AliceRuthLynn</a></div>
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Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/AliceRLynnAuthor" title="http://www.facebook.com/AliceRLynnAuthor">http://www.facebook.com/AliceRLynnAuthor</a></div>
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Blog: <a href="http://alicelynn.wordpress.com/" title="http://alicelynn.wordpress.com/">http://alicelynn.wordpress.com/</a></div>
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In the April of 2012 <i>When Wise Women Speak</i>, Alice will offer a guest blog on the remarkable story of her mother's immigration from Siberia<i></i><i>.</i> It is an amazing story. Please be sure to check back.</div>
Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-18911576481236940772011-09-01T07:17:00.000-07:002017-06-12T10:43:55.923-07:00Rosalie Sorrels<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Beloved folk singer Rosalie Sorrels died on Sunday, June 11, 2017. </span></span></span></div>
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<i>Oh I have loved just like a child <br /> On My Last Go Round</i></div>
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Rosalie Sorrels "Last Go Round"</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Rosalie Sorrels </b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I turned the television </span><span style="font-size: small;">on </span><span style="font-size: small;">a few nights ago and before the picture came in, heard an unmistakable voice—Rosalie Sorrels. To my delight, I had tuned in at the beginning of an hour-long PBS show 'Rosalie Sorrels: Way Out in Idaho', featuring one of the most unique and memorable performers I have ever experienced.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8GphHD5JBkc/Tl6ywHvar2I/AAAAAAAAAIU/Z6FPJuJ8294/s1600/RosalieSorrels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8GphHD5JBkc/Tl6ywHvar2I/AAAAAAAAAIU/Z6FPJuJ8294/s320/RosalieSorrels.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">Known predominately as a singer and songwriter, Rosalie Sorrels is also a respected folklorist. She was born in Idaho to a family of readers and musicians, and began collecting traditional folk songs as a child. At 78, her passion for gathering and sharing the history that these songs preserve continues. She hadn't planned to be a folk singer, but when her marriage ended in the mid 60s, Sorrels loaded her five kids in the car and took off. It was the beginning of what would be a lifetime on the road for the 'Travelin' Lady'. </span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FbxST5xNmyg/Tl61vF9bemI/AAAAAAAAAIY/Qe010QCvjEE/s1600/rosalie1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FbxST5xNmyg/Tl61vF9bemI/AAAAAAAAAIY/Qe010QCvjEE/s320/rosalie1.jpg" width="264" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">I have had the good fortune of attending two live performances by the artist. The first, thirty years ago in Fort Collins, Colorado, and again four years ago in Albuquerque, New Mexico. You don't go 'to see' Rosalie Sorrels. From the moment she speaks, you are drawn into the world of stories and songs she shares. She is a great entertainer, but above all, she is authentic. In an era of high tech hype and slick performances, her pure and simple music and storytelling make her a powerful communicator. At both shows I was struck by that power. At the second show, I was also struck by the fact that in the twenty-five years since I'd last shared that experience, she had survived a brain aneurism and breast cancer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Rosalie prefers small stages, intimate arenas. She likes to see her audience and communicate with them. I had a sense that she was as glad to be there as we were—that singing to us was important to her. I felt liked and special. You can't ask much more from a performer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It is no exaggeration to say her voice is distinctive. There is a video on YouTube that mistakenly identifies a singer with Jerry Garcia at Woodstock as Mimi Farina. I laughed at the number of people commenting who identified Rosalie solely by her voice. That voice has been described as "an instrument as mellow and finely aged as an antique viola." The Boston Globe called her “one of America’s genuine folk treasures.” Gamble Rodgers called her the "hillbilly Edith Piaf". Studs Terkel said "Rosalie Sorrels sings songs the way you've always hoped they'd be sung: Deeply felt, effortlessly, and altogether loverly." Bruce Utah Phillips admired her ability to "get into the guts of a song." The Chicago Reader wrote, "Sorrels has decried the music industry's attempt to homogenize women and ethnicity into something blander. She's living proof that there are some things the biz just can't whitewash." </span><span style="font-size: small;">Deeply moved by her performance, the late John Wasserman, </span> entertainment critic <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Critic" title="Critic"></a><span style="font-size: small;">at the San Francisco Chronicle commented </span><span style="font-size: small;">"She did something that only the best can ever do; she brought back memories that we never had. She's one of the genuines, Rosalie Sorrels is." Others have described her vocals as 'well weathered and wise; real substance; true and powerful; a grain of crusty toughness; a voice that "cuts like a knife and purrs like a kitten". </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zs-UozzK8uU/Tl6ya_OetyI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/fY7IhvVEQq8/s1600/wayoutinidahobook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zs-UozzK8uU/Tl6ya_OetyI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/fY7IhvVEQq8/s200/wayoutinidahobook.jpg" width="153" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">No, she isn't a household name, and I'd be curious to see how she would do at an audition for one of today's 'star' shows, but those who know folk music know Rosalie Sorrels. In 1990 she received The World Folk Music Association's Kate Wolf Award. With the new millennium came an honorary Doctorate of Fine Arts from the University of Idaho, and in 2001, The Boise Peace Quilt Project presented her with a peace quilt. In 2005, her album 'My Last Go Round' received a Grammy nomination for Best Traditional Folk Album, and in 2008, although officially retired, she recorded 'Strangers in Another Country', her tribute to lifelong friend Bruce Utah Phillips. It received another Grammy nod. </span><span style="font-size: small;"> In 1990 she published the 250 page book 'Way out in Idaho: celebration of songs and stories'. The contents came from hundreds of people who Sorrels met as she traveled across the state. She did what she does best, watched, listened and collected their stories, songs, poems, recipes, interviews, and photographs. It includes sheet music for 85 songs, and lyrics for many others. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Today, she lives in a log cabin her father built near Boise Idaho. She still performs, and still collects songs, and yes, still enriches the lives of those who have a chance to see or hear her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">As I write, I'm listening to her sing Malvina Reynolds' song 'Magic Penny'. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>You end up having more.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">When the credits rolled at the end of 'Rosalie Sorrels: Way Out in Idaho' I noticed that it was produced by Idaho Public Television and funded in part by the Idaho Humanities Council. I shivered thinking of recent efforts by politicians to cut into or completely eliminate these kinds of programs. Rosalie Sorrels is a hero, a patriot, a woman who tells and preserves the history of this nation, of its PEOPLE. It is frightening to think that her legacy might not survive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">"If you treat your children like they are the most interesting people you know, they probably will be."</span> </i>Rosalie Sorrels</span></div>
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Jean Sheldon Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-81356806928146249062011-07-01T08:47:00.000-07:002015-11-22T14:01:37.738-08:00Judy Stone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Meet Dr. Judy Stone, a friend for over thirty years. After I asked her to join the 'Wise Women' ranks and received her musings, I realized there was more than a blog in her story. We discussed it and decided to publish her memoir. So here is a brief introduction to my dear friend, and a bit of a teaser for her book, </i>'A Stone's Throw'<i> which will be out in the near future.</i></span></div>
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My life began in 1939 at St. Vincent's Orphanage in Chicago where my parents, Lee and Dorothy had, two years earlier, adopted my brother, Terry. I grew up in a loving supportive home, a two flat on Chicago's west side around Cicero and North Avenue. My mom died when I was 11, leaving dad as a single parent. His sister, my Aunt Mary, became an ever presence in my life. She had worked her way through a teacher's college, not a common accomplishment for women at the time, and then survived the depression. She was determined to help me achieve more. We met for dinner one night and she showed up with a handful of college brochures and the suggestion that I would do better at a smaller school. I had never considered college a reality, but what a wonderful reality it was. I graduated from MacMurray College in Jacksonville, Illinois in 1961.</div>
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I flourished there, learned how to play hockey, became student body president, and amazingly the May Queen (you have to know me to truly enjoy that). We had wonderful visits from the likes of Graham Green, and William Warfield, who talked the administration into having his wife, opera singer Leontyne Price sing for us. Seeing, and more importantly, hearing her was incredible. It was the late 50s and we had only two African American students. She had such a presence and regal bearing. None of us had heard much if anything about her, but there was a sense even before she sang, to start applauding because she was going to knock our socks off. She did! I did not even leave my seat during intermission. </div>
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After graduation, I spent a year teaching in New York—no teacher training in my background because I was a liberal arts/psychology major, but I had no clue as to what I wanted to do. Then on to California where I spent a year in Palo Alto using the skills that high school had provided—great typing and stenography—while in my position as personnel assistant, okay, secretary. </div>
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In 1963 I was accepted into the Peace Corps. When I received a telegram from Sargent Shriver asking me to be a volunteer in North Borneo/Sarawak, I had no idea where I was headed. Thankfully the head honcho at Eastman Kodak where I worked was a National Geographic reader and clued me in.</div>
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As one of the earliest groups to go overseas we were known as "Kennedy's Kids". We were in training on the island of Hawaii when we heard the news of the president's assassination. I remember that it was our last day of teacher training and we were all given tons of leis. When we got back to our training site there was a virtual mountain of them, discarded as we came in the door because there was no cause for the celebratory nature of the gifts.</div>
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My first assignment was to the island of Labuan off the coast of the newly named Sabah. We lived in government housing provided to all teachers and my duties were in a boy's school run by Dutch priests who also ran an orphanage. Teachers were Chinese, Malays, Indians (from India), Australian, British and now one American. The next year, I was transferred to the village of Melalap. Suddenly I was in a very remote place, the first Peace Corp volunteer to be there. On Labuan we had electricity, indoor plumbing, an indoor shower (cold water only), and a kerosene stove that had three burners. Melalap had none of those. For the first few months I did not have a kerosene stove or lights and when the sun set—so did I—often with two mosquito coils on either side of my head on the pillow. </div>
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It was quite a year, replete with a few king cobras visiting (and one queen) and an eclipse. This is of note because without warning of such one is not prepared. We were all surprised by the sudden and massive drop in temperature and students looking out the door said "Look teacher there's a star" I assumed they were just confused and using the wrong word. Duh—when I realized what was happening we looked at it properly, after probably ruining our eyes a bit. That afternoon no one came to school, but the word had spread that "Teacher said it was okay and she was going to explain it the next day and not to be afraid." I had to find out the Malay word for planet earth as the story could not be understood in English.</div>
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Leaving there filled me with great sadness. It had been such a wonderful year. My students loved me as I loved them and I had made many friends including the native chief and his wife who lived the closest to me. I had a chance to return there some years later.</div>
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I returned to the United States and worked with Job Corps in DC—a program to train and educate high school drop-outs. Terrific when it works but it was time for me to get on with my education. George Washington University turned me down by saying they were not accepting women that year and American University, also in DC, would not help with tuition as all assistantships were being given to men. I received my master's at Bowling Green in Ohio.</div>
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I left academia once again for Asia where I was director of the first total in-country training program in Thailand and was then recruited for Nepal. After receiving training there I trekked into the Himalayas with three other Thai volunteers, one Sherpa, and a young man who had escaped from Tibet. There were many incredible sites on this trip, but one more memorable was my first sighting of Everest reflecting the morning sun. The trip was the most arduous I have ever taken but the most rewarding. I had lots of time to myself. We did not talk much during the days as going up was to breath-taking (in many ways) and going down was too painful. In fact we looked forward to the days when we were going up.</div>
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I became a world traveler for one year spending months in Asia, then Africa, and finally Europe, eventually ending up back in Chicago to finish my Ph.D. at Loyola. Life had other plans, and prior to completion I was involved in a near death accident. So near that I came to once and a priest was giving me the last rites. I had enough presence of mind to say "Father I am not ready for that", glad that I was more right than he about my need for help into the hereafter. I stayed in the hospital for 130 days, but eventually claimed my doctorate.</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>You can see why I wanted to publish Judy's memoir. The more I read, the more questions I had, and the more I wanted to know. But her story doesn't stop with her years as a mental health consultant to Job Corps, as a volunteer and training and selection person for Peace Corps, her experiences as a eulogist, or her years as a clinical psychologist in Chicago. In fact, there is another amazing story in the last chapter, 'And Then There Were Ten'. </i></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yLjgMqAwVzo/Tg3piC0AvUI/AAAAAAAAAFs/mRUu2Uicf9Q/s1600/family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yLjgMqAwVzo/Tg3piC0AvUI/AAAAAAAAAFs/mRUu2Uicf9Q/s400/family.jpg" width="400" /></a>I mentioned I was adopted, and in the early 1990s, after years of searching I found the woman I was pretty sure was my mother. A man answered the phone that historic occasion and not knowing if he even knew of my existence I asked to speak to Rita. Upon mentioning my birth date and the belief that she was my mother she said "Oh my child, I have prayed for you every day of your life (about 50 of them at the time)". Well my heart was setting records when I heard her say to him "This is the little girl we gave up" As it turned out, George and Rita Busse married about three years after my birth and went on to have nine other children. And so in many rapid heartbeats I went from never knowing a blood relation to being the oldest of ten full brothers and sisters. It is rare for adoptees to have this kind of experience—most tend to find only their mother. When I went to see them, my father was waiting at the top of the stairs and said "I would have known you were one of ours from the moment you got out of the car—you look just like your sister Margie". </div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Watch here for more information on </i>'A Stone's Throw'<i>.</i></span></div>
Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-18011602948789870262011-05-01T08:03:00.000-07:002013-01-12T08:16:00.702-08:00Willa Cather<div style="text-align: left;">
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All human history is a record of an emigration, an exodus from barbarism to civilization; from the very outset of this pilgrimage of humanity, superstition and investigation have been contending for mastery. Since investigation first led man forth on that great search for truth which has prompted all his progress, superstition, the stern Pharoah of his former bondage, has followed him, retarding every step of advancement.</i></div>
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Above is the opening paragraph of a speech Willa Cather made at her graduation from Red Cloud High School in June of 1890. She was sixteen and wrote it in response to those who criticized her interest in biology and science. You can see the entire text at <a href="http://cather.unl.edu/bohlke.s.01.html">Superstition VS. Investigation by Willa Cather</a>. </div>
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Yes, I know, there are hundreds of websites filled with information about this great American writer, including, <a href="http://www.willacather.org/">The Willa Cather Foundation</a> and the <a href="http://cather.unl.edu/nf012.html">University of Nebraska Willa Cather Archive</a>, along with articles, blogs, and book reviews. This brief summary is only to acquaint those who haven’t read her work, and reacquaint those who have, to one of my favorite authors. </div>
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Willa Cather, born in Virginia in 1873, was most famous for her stories of immigrants who pioneered the American Midwest. Her family moved to Nebraska in 1882 when Willa was nine. A few years later, she took a job delivering mail on horseback to farms in the community, an experience that allowed her to become personally familiar with the diverse cultures settled there. When the Cather family moved from their unsuccessful farm into the town of Red Cloud, she met neighbors whose influence on her life was more intellectual and artistic, but equally profound. Many of them, along with those to whom she delivered mail, would become models for her future characters. She wrote, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don't gather the material for my stories....All my stories have been written with material that was gathered—no, God save us! Not gathered but absorbed—before I was fifteen years old.</i></div>
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Following high school, Willa enrolled at the University of Nebraska’s preparatory school to study science. It was only after one of her professors submitted a paper she wrote for publication that she considered a career in journalism. In 1893 she became managing editor of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hesperian</i>, the college literary digest and began writing columns for the Nebraska State Journal. </div>
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During her years at the university, Cather did what many college students do—searched for her identity. She experimented with her writing and her looks. For the latter, she cut her hair short, wore men's clothing, and signed her name William Cather. These actions, hardly revolutionary today, were outrageous for a woman of the late nineteenth century, but so was a woman wanting to write. Her early writing, along with the literary criticism and essays, included a book of poetry, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">April Twilights</i>, and a collection of short stories called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Troll Garden</i> published in 1905. In 1906, she moved to New York and joined Edith Lewis, who would be her companion for the rest of her life. She also became an editor at McClure's magazine where she stayed until 1912 when she began writing full time. It was that year that her first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alexander's Bridge</i>, (originally <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alexander's Masquerade</i>) appeared in McClure's. During a trip to the southwest, Cather was struck by sudden inspiration and began writing the pioneer novels that would bring her greatest fame, <i>O Pioneers! </i><i><span style="font-style: normal;">(1913)</span></i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">T<i>he Song of the Lark</i></i>, (1915), and <i>My Antonia</i> (1918).</div>
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Here is the chronology of books that followed.</div>
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<i>Youth and the Bright Medusa</i> a collection of short-stories 1920</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Lost Lady</i> 1923 </div>
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<i>The Professor’s House</i> 1925</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Mortal Enemy</i> 1926</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Death Comes for the Archbishop</i> 1927</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shadows on the Rock </i>1931</div>
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<i>Obscure Destinies</i>, a collection of short stories 1932 </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucy Gayheart</i> 1935</div>
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<i>Not Under Forty, </i><i><span style="font-style: normal;">a book of essays</span> </i>1936</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sapphira and the Slave Girl</i> 1940</div>
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<i>The Old Beauty and Others, </i><i><span style="font-style: normal;">a collection of short stories </span></i>1948 published by Knopf a year after her death.</div>
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There is a sparseness to Cather's books. Not something forgotten, but the intentional clearing away of debris to allow the story full reign. In an article written for The New Republic called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://cather.unl.edu/nf012.html">The Novel Démeublé</a></i> she wrote: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How wonderful it would be if we could throw all the furniture out of the window; and along with it, all the meaningless reiterations concerning physical sensations, all the tiresome old patterns, and leave the room as bare as the stage of a Greek theatre, or as that house into which the glory of Pentecost descended; leave the scene bare for the play of emotions, great and little—for the nursery tale, no less than the tragedy, is killed by tasteless amplitude.</i></div>
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If you have read her stories, you know how effectively 'unfurnished' they are. Cather once said that after seeing a mural by Pierre Puvis de Chavannes she wanted to create the same effect with a story. “…something in the style of legend…with none of the artificial elements of composition…the mood is the thing." </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p8xLd0N9sG8/TbwqaglOnyI/AAAAAAAAAFM/IuSssEm5MII/s1600/myantonia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p8xLd0N9sG8/TbwqaglOnyI/AAAAAAAAAFM/IuSssEm5MII/s200/myantonia.jpg" width="125" /></a>It is 'the mood' I find most attractive in her writing. A line in the epilogue of her first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alexander's Bridge</i>, answered an age old question for me. Are we the person we perceive ourselves to be, or the one that others see? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wilson shook himself and readjusted his glasses. "Oh, fair enough. More than fair. Of course, I always felt that my image of him was just a little different from hers. No relation is so complete that it can hold absolutely all of a person."</i> </div>
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In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Antonia, </i>the narrator pens a manuscript called 'Antonia', to which he hastily adds 'My' as he passes it on to a friend. In his text he recounts his childhood journey to Nebraska and parts of his life shared with Antonia. The story, the struggle of immigrant farmers in harsh, unforgiving land and times, is a classic work. H.L. Mencken wrote,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> No romantic novel ever written in America, by man or woman, is one half so beautiful as </i>My Antonia<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i></div>
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It is difficult to pick a favorite, but if I had too, I might choose <i>The Song of the Lark</i>, which is the story of a young woman's struggle to become an opera singer, and <i>Death Comes to the Archbishop</i>, which I read again after having lived in New Mexico for a few years. She completely captured the 'sense' of the area. For someone new to Willa Cather, I would say <i>My Antonia</i> is a good place to start, but do start.<i> </i></div>
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Willa Cather died of a cerebral hemorrhage on April 24, 1947, at their home in New York and was buried in New Hampshire. At the bottom of her large gravestone is a quote from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Antonia</i>: "that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great." </div>
Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-79368986266408347572011-04-01T08:13:00.000-07:002013-03-08T06:51:40.094-08:00Eleanor Louise Sheldon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This month features one of my favorite 'Wise Women', Eleanor Sheldon, Mom. When I announced my plan to highlight her in April for her 82nd birthday, she wasn't sold on the idea. She felt that since the other guests were writers, she didn't belong. It's a good thing this is my blog. Happy Birthday, Mom!</div>
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On April 29, 1929, Eleanor Louise Owen first shook the bright curls that would earn her the nickname 'Red'. She was born in the boarding house her mom and dad owned on Marshfield and Harrison in Chicago. If you go there today, you'll find Rush Library and Medical College. My grandparents lost the building a short time after mom's birth when the stock market crashed and tenants could no longer pay their rent. They didn't have the heart to evict anyone. </div>
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What I remember most is laughter. Mom has a knack for not taking herself or life in general too serious. When I was in high school, the coach for our volleyball team had to drop out and we needed an adult to replace her in a hurry. Mom knew nothing about volleyball and her idea of exercise was raising four kids and dancing, but she volunteered. We were the worst team in the conference and had a very short season, but no team had more fun. After missing a relatively easy shot, I looked over to the sidelines ready to be chastised. Instead, I saw 'the coach' trying to hide her laughter and urging us on. What a great lesson for a fifteen-year-old—winning IS NOT everything—the joy is in playing.<br />
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As in all families, there were times without laughter. One of those was in May of 1968 when my brother Bill died in Viet Nam. Even now I cannot fathom the pain my parents felt losing their nineteen-year-old son. "You are not," Mom said through her tears, "supposed to live longer than your children." </div>
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Mom was a typical teenager in Chicago during the challenging years of World War II. Too young to work in the factories, she took a job as a waitress at the local drug store and spent her evenings doing what she loved, dancing at the USO. She and her best friend had another passion. For over 60 years, Chicago was home to one of the nations then largest amusement parks, Riverview. She and Charlotte would walk the 12 miles to and from the park to spend their day off ignoring the frightening news of the war, eating cotton candy and foot long hot dogs, riding "The Bobs", a roller coaster with an 85-foot drop, and checking out the servicemen there on leave. </div>
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It wasn't until after the war when her family made a brief move to Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania that she met the serviceman of her dreams. On her way to her aunt's where she was staying, she spotted William Sheldon on his front porch. He had just returned from the Navy. She knew at that moment he was the man she would marry and when her family returned to Chicago, 'Billy' followed. They were married in 1947. </div>
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Because of her family's move, Mom dropped out of school. Years later she returned to high school and graduated as valedictorian of her night school class. It was a proud moment for all of us when she gave her speech on the stage where my brothers and I graduated. </div>
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Dad worked as a computer programmer, so mom was no stranger to the 'new' technology. She took an entry level position as a key punch operator and moved up the ranks. Before long, she was writing procedure manuals for developing positions in the computer industry. An industry, which she often reminded us, paid women half the salary for the same job as men. Any wonder that I'm a feminist!</div>
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While writing this article, I looked through photos and memories and tried to see Eleanor Sheldon not as my mother, but as others saw her. A red-haired beauty who raised four children, worked full time both outside and inside her home, and now, an eighty-two year old woman, mother, wife, grandmother, friend, and perhaps many other sides I will never know.<br />
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As I looked back over the years, I remembered when my brother Bill at around age ten came home with blood pouring from a gash in his head. Mom stayed focused and handled both the crisis and her slightly hysterical daughter. I remembered when our faithful dog, Hoppy, had a seizure in the yard and mom knelt at his side, cooling him with water, talking to him, and soothing him until he recovered. I remembered her cooking, cleaning, keeping the books, washing and hanging laundry, dancing, singing, drawing, going to work, and oh yes, I remembered her laughter. The memories of those and other incidents make it impossible for me to guess how others might see her. That's okay. I see her as I always have—remarkable.</div>
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The other day, after I had written much of this article, my parents dropped by to help me hang drapes. It was comical as the three of us worked through our collective 'senior moments' and managed to get the rods and drapery hung fairly straight with few injuries. Mom kept track of where Dad and I left the tools, rulers, hardware, etc; she crawled on the floor to talk to my cat under the bed, less than pleased with the disturbances; and she quickly solved a problem Dad and I made far more complicated than it was, saving us additional work and frustration. Mom can do that. Mom can do an amazing number of things. A few years ago, after I had written my first mysteries, Mom, an avid reader, decided she'd like to try her hand at writing. She's working on her second story. You see, Mom, you do belong here.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.</i> </span>Mark Twain </blockquote>
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Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-88139835281324547892011-03-01T08:46:00.001-08:002022-03-02T09:13:26.586-08:00Carol Grier<div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kRuk3jsrQVA/TWvTCifB9cI/AAAAAAAAAEI/qMgw42bAbwU/s1600/carolgrier.jpg" /></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">In 2010, when the Northwest Association of Book Publishers was planning it's presence at Wordstock, a popular Portland, Oregon book fair, we asked members to volunteer a few hours to work at our booth. One of the first hands in the air was that of Carol Grier, an octogenarian who is no stranger to answering the call for help. I'm delighted to be an associate and friend to a woman best described as a <i>Class Act!</i></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</style> <![endif]--><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Carol was born in 1924, in a farmhouse near Orofino, Idaho where she lived briefly with her mom, Elizabeth, and her birth father. </span>In an era when society quietly expected a woman to tolerate beatings from her husband, Elizabeth rebelled. The marriage ended in divorce, forcing the young mother and daughter to return to her impoverished parents' home. After the move, Elizabeth discovered she was pregnant, and tragically, one of Carol's earliest memories is the death and funeral of her baby brother. Another, less heartbreaking recollection, was of her mother's return from nearby Moscow, Idaho where she had gone to work. She brought with her a new husband, a father for Carol. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-kNXwhoApojc/TWvdHqcXgmI/AAAAAAAAAEU/AMwQCJiR3sA/s1600/carolandmom.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-kNXwhoApojc/TWvdHqcXgmI/AAAAAAAAAEU/AMwQCJiR3sA/s320/carolandmom.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">By 1931, the nation struggled in the grips of an economic depression. Carol was seven when her new father, lucky enough to find a job, moved the family to Yosemite National Park. The experiences of the next six years would stay with her for the rest of her life. From <i>Choices, a Memoir:</i> <i>The bittersweet echo of Yosemite is still with me. Paradise is supposed to be our last adventure not our first. It was painful to leave but I'm happy for those halcyon days. The purity of the air, the majesty of the mountains, and the quiet privacy taught me the value of the earth on which I lived. As I absorbed the wonder around me, I developed an inner strength, for Yosemite had crept into my soul, never to leave. </i></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Although magical, the years in Yosemite were not perfect. After one of her father's friends touched her inappropriately, she ran home and told her mother, only to find doubt and disbelief. Carol knew that if her mother wouldn't believe it about a stranger, she would never believe that her father was doing the same thing. She decided to deal with it herself. The next time he slipped his hand under her blanket, she told him to stop. He did.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-39V4BSZmw6g/TWvUTMlVSOI/AAAAAAAAAEM/1Q-EDo-UJZM/s1600/choices.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-39V4BSZmw6g/TWvUTMlVSOI/AAAAAAAAAEM/1Q-EDo-UJZM/s200/choices.jpg" width="130" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">From Yosemite, the family moved to San Francisco for a short time before finally settling in Portland, Oregon. This brief summary is just the beginning of Carol's story, told in her second book, <i><a href="http://choiceswehave.com/">Choices, a Memoir</a>. </i>In chronicling her own family's history, Carol artfully reveals the struggle of women and families in the twentieth century. Her writing and storytelling moved and entertained me, but it also reminded of the importance of memoirs to both literature and society. What better way to examine our past and prepare for our future than the well penned experiences of those with whom we share this journey.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Why did you write </i>Choices?</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had several reasons. Overall I wanted to emphasize how important our choices are. Good or bad, we live with them for the rest of our lives, but it is possible to have a good life in spite of tragedy and grief. I also wanted to demonstrate how much we women have gained from the early 1900s to the present. It is my hope that our youngest generation of women will value it. And for my own benefit, I wanted to determine if it was possible to escape the negative patterns that are set for us by preceding generations. By the time I finished the book, I realized that my mother had escaped at least part of the pattern, which enabled me to escape even more. Writing the book was a great experience because it rounded out my memories.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Ug_QsprRDds/TWvWbnwQvzI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/iVNiz-5w4jg/s1600/secrets.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Ug_QsprRDds/TWvWbnwQvzI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/iVNiz-5w4jg/s200/secrets.jpg" width="131" /></a> Carol's first book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Secrets-Memoir-Carol-Grier/dp/1591293138"><i>Secrets, a Memoir</i></a> opens as she reads a letter from her estranged son telling her he has inoperable cancer and six months to live. It is never easy to read about tragedy. Even when it happens to people we don't know, it stirs our emotions and the memories of our own loss and pain. The story of Carol's relationship with her son in the last 8 months of his life stirred many of those emotions. It also stirred anger at the inhuman treatment inflicted on people with AIDS and their families and friends. The book, filled with descriptions of the remarkable courage of some, and the remarkable insensitivity of others, is a testament to the endurance of love. In the end, whatever barriers existed between mother and son, whatever hatred others dispensed, disappeared in that bond. Carol, thank you for sharing your story.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">I still see Carol at <a href="http://www.nwabp.org/">NWABP</a> meetings and can keep you posted on her up and coming books. She is currently writing <i>How to Recognize a Good Man When You Meet Him…and How to Treat Him,</i> to help women pick out good husbands. She is also in the editing process of a novel, <i>Pine Bluff</i>, a multi-generational story of a family in Idaho. See <a href="http://veronicaesagui.net/authorshow-16.html">Carol's interview on Author's Forum</a>.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Thoughts from Carol </b></i></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">You want to be happy? First, sit down and make a list on one side of the page with a heading of Happy. Add another column with a heading of Unhappy. It’s simple. All you have to do is fill in the columns with what makes you happy and what makes you unhappy, but you have to list 20 things under each heading. You should learn a great deal about yourself from these lists. For those of us who really don’t want to be happy, it will be a hard lesson, perhaps one they just can’t absorb. For those of us who have been ground down with responsibilities and tough breaks, it will give them a chance to breathe again. Try it. Find some joy.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><b>Carol Grier’s Ten Commandments</b></i></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>1. Be faithful to yourself, your mate, and your children<br />
2. Be honorable<br />
3. Be ethical<br />
4. Be compassionate<br />
5. Treat others as you would have them treat you<br />
6. Cultivate humor and laughter<br />
7. Be generous with love<br />
8. Be eager to learn<br />
9. Be outgoing, not in-growing<br />
10. Always have a goal</i></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">AMEN!</span></div>Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-64410103472783512572011-01-31T14:17:00.000-08:002013-03-22T06:59:29.648-07:00Devon St. Claire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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Have you ever started a writing project and wondered if you would have enough to say about the topic? From the first word, I knew that would not be a problem in composing this article. In fact, I guessed correctly that I would have too much to say.</div>
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Dr. Veronica Esagui, who you met in the previous post, introduced me to Devon St. Claire, although I had the pleasure of reading her three books of fiction before meeting her in person. I'll talk more about her books shortly, but first I want to talk about the woman herself. </div>
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Prior to her career in fiction writing, started when she was 80, (that is not a typo) Devon was an educator, published editorialist, guest columnist, and a serialized radio scriptwriter/broadcaster. Her love of language began when she won a citywide essay contest at age eleven and that early success resulted in a master's degree in the humanities and a teaching career. While in academia, she began writing editorial comments to the Minneapolis Star, putting into practice writing tips she was currently teaching in class. Her students poured over the morning edition, thrilled when they found her byline and recognized the technique she used. She called it "the best teaching tool ever", and I'm guessing they are still thanking her for the skills they learned.</div>
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After her retirement from teaching and a sojourn in Hawaii, Devon began writing radio scripts for a philosophical series. She called them "inspirational narratives" in which she "tried to tell the very best story possible within the confines of the radio show, and let the listeners decide on the meaning for their individual life." The stories ran three times a day, sometimes in the wee hours, in Portland, Honolulu, and Christchurch, New Zealand. The script writing helped her hone her dialogue skills and "practice powered description which did not depend upon the crutch of adjectives, but on the verb energy." I'm sure there was a large share of 'Devon' energy as well. Throughout this project, her newspaper connection continued with essays in <i>The Oregonian, The Columbian,</i> and <i>The San Francisco Examiner.</i> However, it was in 2005, when she stood in the grotto on the island of Patmos thinking about St. John and Revelations that she considered writing a longer narrative drawing upon 80 years of experiences and observations of humanity in action. She went on to write <i>Memoir of the House, He Came Crying,</i> and <i>Shadow Women, Emerging into Light.</i></div>
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<b><i>Devon</i></b><b><i>'s Books</i></b></div>
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<i>Memoir of the House</i></div>
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It challenges my gray matter to think of all the houses and apartments I've inhabited throughout my life, but the ones memorable enough to recall often made me wonder what stories they would tell if they could speak. In spite of my own questions, it surprised me to discover that the protagonist of <i>Memoir of the House</i> was a log home in the remote Colorado Rockies. After spending its early years filled with the love of a happy family, the main character tells of its tragic abandonment and subsequent sordid inhabitants. The spirit of the house, moving from naive innocence to the brink of its own 'dark night of the soul', propelled me through the story, introducing me to its residents while it struggled to understand them and their differences from the first family. I am not an avid science fiction or fantasy reader and even shudder a little when animals talk in stories, but the voice of the house from the pen of Devon St. Claire spoke to me with an eloquence and feeling I won't soon forget. </div>
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<i>He Came Crying </i></div>
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The idea for <i>He Came Crying, </i>according to Devon, simmered in the back of her mind since she lived in Hawaii in the mid 70s. Articles in the Honolulu Advertiser exposed serious abuses of students brought from the Pacific Islands by the Mormon Church to work at the Polynesian Cultural Center while attending college. Those reports became the foundation for the journey of Dahn Rishi Singh, an Indian youth raised in Fiji and schooled in New Zealand who went on to do graduate studies in Hawaii. Dan, his western name, is a gentle soul who struggles to do right by himself, his family, and those who say they want to help him. Poetry and love allow him to find and understand his true beliefs. Of this character, Devon wrote, "With the Bible's David as a model, I could let Dan try and fail, but never lose the base in his thinking, the relationship with a God vastly different from the harsh, controlling 'god' of the Mormons." Once again, the character driven story captivated me, but in this story, instead of a house, it was a young man from India the author wanted readers to know and understand. By the time I finished <i>He Came Crying</i>, I knew him well. </div>
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<i>Shadow Women, Emerging into Light</i></div>
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A group of intelligent and sensitive women caught in a variety of bad situations, find a guide in a teacher who shows them how to move toward freedom one step at a time. The stories and poems reflect their struggle for empowerment, and <i>Escape,</i> the final narrative shows their transformation as they journey toward a once unthinkable independence. It also introduces a group of men from the Canadian Rockies who through a series of 'mystical accidents' become first fans and then friends with the fictitious teacher and the author herself. Since the publication of her books, Devon has kindled a number of cyber connections with people who after reading her stories, found the strength and courage to change their own bad situations. What greater reward is there for a writer? </div>
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<b><i>Devon</i></b><b><i>'s Thoughts </i></b></div>
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"I have to duck my head over such a title as 'a wise woman'. For a long time I have practiced being still and listening, and then acting if I had something worthy to contribute. Some persons might call it inspiration. </div>
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"In my novel-writing career of only five years, I cannot point to adversity. It has been, instead, a splendid ride. I had not imagined that these wonderful lovers of a good story would share their enthusiasm for the ideas woven in, buying copies for others, writing often to discuss crossroads in their lives, indicating how they have been empowered to be pro-active and change their lives. Several thought they recognized their own struggles in a chapter. To me that meant the 'facts' I used to achieve reality for my imagined story had been well chosen. </div>
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"No adversity here. There is only this feeling that it would have been a crime not to answer that small call to write a novel about the human condition. The rest has to be tasting of humility and deciding that for some beautiful reason I became a kind of conduit through which insights for troubled persons could flow. What an honor.</div>
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"It is mind-expanding, spirit warming, heart filling. I highly recommend probing the mind for ideas to share, devising themes to capture the reader's imagination, interacting with readers, and being crowned in the most unusual way in the second half of a full life. Never, did I ever consider how a story could be parable-like and be a great source of help for individuals.</div>
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"Rather than a wise woman who has risen above times of great testing to success, I am a blessed woman wanting nothing more than to keep contact with the readers who are on their way in life and to add new readers who find similar inspiration and feed my spirit."</div>
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This brief summary can scarcely express the power of St. Claire's writing, or the inspiration she has given to many, including myself. She is indeed what every writer should strive to be—an author in touch with her readers.</div>
Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-15398648139553540752011-01-02T09:22:00.000-08:002013-03-22T06:59:04.531-07:00Dr. Veronica Esagui<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I first encountered <a href="http://veronicaesagui.net/">Dr. Veronica Esagui</a> at a meeting of the <a href="http://www.nwabp.org/">Northwest Association of Book Publishers</a>. She was announcing a number of upcoming opportunities for authors and publishers in the Pacific Northwest, many of which she had organized. One in particular was a chance to appear on her television show <a href="http://veronicaesagui.net/authorsforum-index.html">'The Authors Forum'</a>. Before my brain remembered that I was a shy, rather reclusive person, I gave Veronica a card and asked if she would consider interviewing me about my historical fiction, 'The Woman in the Wing'. A few weeks later, I received an email to be on the show. YIKES! The interview was a wonderful adventure, but I'm not sure how it would have gone were it not for Veronica's talent at making a person feel completely comfortable. I have since learned that it is only one of her many gifts.</div>
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Verónica Leah Toledano Esaguy Wartenberg came to the United States in 1962 from Lisbon, Portugal for a prearranged marriage to her cousin. Her name, she explained, was shortened to a more Americanized version, Veronica Esagui, and to her chagrin, her husband insisted on calling her Ronnie. In her memoirs, a series of four books written in first person, she presents a refreshingly open account of her life. Two have been published so far, and the first, <i>Veronica's Diary, the Journey of Innocence</i> tells of her first eighteen years. It ends as she steps onto the shores of the United States.</div>
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In <a href="http://veronicaesagui.net/veronicas_diary.html"><i>The Journey of Innocence</i></a> we learn that Veronica grew up 'with a silver spoon in her mouth'. Her father owned a German delicatessen in Lisbon and her mother had been a concert pianist awarded a silver medal by the King of Spain. Unfortunately, their financial situation changed as did their lives. Veronica recalled watching the furniture leave the house a piece at a time to help them survive and learned painful lessons about prejudice. They were German Jews in a Catholic country after WWII. She also learned that she had no freedom in her personal choices. Her mother and aunt arranged her marriage.</div>
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The second book, <a href="http://veronicaesagui.net/veronicas_diary.html"><i>Braving a New World</i></a>, is more than a story about the struggles of a new wife and mother in a strange country. It is a glimpse into a creative, loving, understanding, sometimes frightened, but always gentle, human being, overcoming challenges that would have knocked many of us out of the game. I found her attitudes about life and its many challenges empowering and her thoughtful, honest storytelling style uplifting and often amusing. </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IxKTeagt8y4/TZnT8Q0o8rI/AAAAAAAAAE0/aqRnOcn61s0/s1600/scoliosisbook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IxKTeagt8y4/TZnT8Q0o8rI/AAAAAAAAAE0/aqRnOcn61s0/s200/scoliosisbook.jpg" width="130" /></a>But, she is not 'just' an author. Dr. Esagui is a woman of action with one part of her brain tirelessly seeking new ideas, and another part finding ways to bring those creations to fruition. Those ideas usually involve one or more of her passions as a writer (playwright, author, and journalist), musician (classical guitarist and teacher), director, (theater and television) to name a few. And, she accomplishes these feats in off hours from her work as a chiropractic physician at <a href="http://www.gentledoctors.com/">Gentle Care Chiropractic</a>. That career came literally by accident when she was told she needed back surgery following a lifting injury. After learning first hand that she didn't need drugs or surgery to accomplish her personal miracle, she decided to go back to school and help others in the same way she had been helped. Her experiences treating young patients with scoliosis, led to the development of The Esagui Scoliosis Protocol (TESP), a very specific group of exercises which, along with chiropractic adjustments, proved to help reverse scoliosis. This experience led her to write and publish <a href="http://veronicaesagui.net/scoliosis_sample.html"><i>The Scoliosis Self-Help Resource Book</i></a>.</div>
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That is an impressive list of accomplishments on its own, but what I find most remarkable about Veronica is her selfless approach to life. I have since attended a number of events with her, and watched her continual counsel and support of those involved—<i>her</i> success is based on the success of the entire group—a rare attitude these days.</div>
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I asked Veronica about writing:</div>
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<i>To me writing is a free ticket to travel anywhere in the world, anywhere in the universe, and I’m willing to go as far as it will take me. Be it fiction or non-fiction we are obligated to share…we are the purveyors of the real past with the written word.</i> </div>
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I asked about some of the more graphic descriptions in her memoirs. She does not recommend her books for children.</div>
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<i>At my age, I’m not worried about that. I wanted to keep the stories exactly the way they happened. When you are over 50 you become fearless, not afraid of the truth. Memories are the essence of existence and the gift of yesterday’s choices.</i></div>
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It has been a privilege and an inspiration for me to meet and learn more about Veronica. I recently became president of the Northwest Association of Book Publishers, a challenge I'm not sure I would have taken on if it hadn't been for her support. I am thankful to be among the many whose lives she touched. </div>
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See Veronica <a href="http://veronicaesagui.net/authorshow-22.html">on her own show</a> interviewed by the shows producer, Karen Sorbel.</div>
Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4551802199513704176.post-21211754726688785152010-12-29T15:41:00.000-08:002012-12-12T15:57:54.964-08:00Welcome<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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I was a little uncertain whether this endeavor qualified as a blog, but since <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blog">Wikipedia</a> defines the word as "a type of website or part of a website…usually maintained by an individual with regular entries of commentary, descriptions of events, or other material…" I thought it would meet the requirements. I will post informational articles once a month, each discussing, or contributed by a 'Wise Woman', a woman who I have found inspirational. I want to share these inspirations. </div>
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The idea to do this came after Lynne Spreen invited me to do a guest post on her wonderful blog, <a href="http://anyshinything.com/">Any Shiny Thing | a Blog for Smart Women of a Certain Age</a>. I mentioned there that a few things had happened to make me realize how important it is that we share our knowledge. After I began my research, I believed that even more. A comment by Nanci on the <i>AnyShinyThing</i> guest blog summed up perfectly what I hope this site will do: <i>I love the idea of talking about the ways that our journeys have made us unique and useful. Re-inventing ourselves in a new era is so invigorating and reading about the “small stories” of women making a difference in their lives and others is such a wonderful concept. Most of us are “small story” people, but put us together and there can be big results. </i>AMEN, Nanci!</div>
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I will post the first story the week of January 1, 2011. In time, I hope to request your choices for 'Wise Women', but for now, I have a list to keep me busy for a while. Please enjoy the posts and add your own thoughts. Be inspired—be inspiring!</div>
Jean Sheldonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01569305699475871520noreply@blogger.com