Memoirous

January 1 You Determine Where You’ll Go You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go... ― Dr. Seuss, from Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

My new eBook is at Amazon. http:// tinyurl.com/mw9kmvu   365 Affirmations for the Writer # amwriting # flash # memoir

Christmas 1944 Alice Gundry’s Recipe For the Best Potato Pancakes Ever Start with leftover mashed potatoes. Add finely chopped onion, salt and pepper. Knead in flour until no longer sticky. Form a handful of potato mixture into a patty and fry in hot bacon fat until golden on both sides. Delicious! We fed upon our dreams, bittersweet dreams of food and release. Gift giving for our second Christmas in Los Baños revolved around food, our most precious commodity. Alice and I exchanged recipes. Mother managed to save a can of jam from last year’s Red Cross Christmas package. We each got half a teaspoonful. Freddy surprised us with chicken. While Mother was preparing our one holiday meal, I took a walk over to see little Maggie Suchey. I had made a doll out of split bamboo for her. As I walked over to the family barracks, I couldn’t avoid passing by the corner room belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Leecher. Mr. Leecher ran a black market operation inside the camp. It was rumored

Read the rest of the story--(available in digital format, eBook from Amazon , Nook, Smashwords. Christmas at Los Baños The transfer to Los Baños took place two weeks later. Except for missing Frank, Ann, and the girls, I was glad to leave. Too many memories lingered in the halls and courtyard of STIC. I looked forward to seeing Papa and meeting Freddy Urs. I still had the money for him that his mother had given me before I left Panay. We traveled by railcar to Los Baños, which was approximately thirty miles south of Manila. Ironically, Los Baños—“the baths”—had been a resort famous for its curative waters. Laguna de Bay, a huge lake, bordered the edge of town, and nearby was the picturesque volcano Mount Makiling. The internment camp had originally been an agricultural college. It felt odd walking along the rows of fruit trees—tangerine, kalamansi , mango, papaya—toward the gates and fences of our prison camp. We arrived dusty and travel-worn, anxious and excited. I h

In the cold month of December we could use a little paradise--here is an excerpt from my YA novel (available in digital format, eBook from Amazon, Nook, Smashwords, y'all!).   ANOTHER EXCERPT Christmas in Captivity Christmas Day arrived—my second in the Philippines, my first in captivity. It came without store-bought presents, without Papa, Julie, or mother. Mother mostly lay in bed except for when I took her by the hand and led her to the shower, the toilet, or to meals. She had hardly spoken a word since her outburst about the wedding album. As I looked into her vacant face, I often wondered what she thought about. Was she thinking of Papa? Without Papa she was missing her other half, the part of her that said she fixed good meals, thanked her for being a good wife, held her hand, and smoothed her hair at the dinner table. It was hard watching her crumble a little bit more each day. I busied myself making Christmas presents for the girls from materials availabl

In the cold month of December we could use a little paradise--here is an excerpt from my YA novel (available in digital format, eBook from Amazon, Nook, Smashwords, y'all!). It is Christmas 1941--after the attack on Pearl Harbor the Philippines were targeted and the Japanese invaded the islands, slowly working their way down from Manila which capitulated (not the case at the end of the war where Filipinos and Americans  fought corner to corner against the Japanese. The city was heavily damaged. and the civilian population paid in many casualties). Anyway Louise's father was in the capital city when it fell and there are questions of when, if ever, he might be able to reunite with the family on the island of Panay. Christmas excerpt Beyond Paradise Mother volunteered to make a Christmas Eve dinner for the Fletchers. By combining pantries on the compound everyone got a little bit of everything. We received a canned ham plus several cans of green beans, creamed corn,

Thanks for these gray hairs Thanks for these weird discolored spots (liver marks?) Thanks for my thunder thighs— They help me to climb the stairs Thanks for wind in my pipes (to climb the stairs) Thanks that I can sing Thanks that I sing badly Thanks for stretch marks Thanks for a great big ass Thanks for the gaps in my teeth because without these teeth I would never be able to Eat Little Debbie Nutty Bars, Hot Tamale candy, and those addictive restaurant-style tortilla chips. Thanks for the flab under my arms— they’re like little bat wings! Thanks that I’m not dead. Thanks for one more day to dance naked.

You know summer is over when —snow piles up on window ACs. You know summer is over when —all the swimming pools are empty hulls. You know summer is over when —the streets glisten from icy rain. You know summer is over when —you shiver stepping out of the shower. You know summer is over when —even the dogs put on jackets. You know summer is over when —the marigolds die. You know summer is over when —they bring the patio umbrella inside. You know summer is over when —the mice run into the house. You know summer is over when —Starbucks begins to advertise their Pumpkin Chai Latte. You know summer is over when —the lake turns green beneath a slate gray sky. Can you think of a few of your own? --send them to me in the Comments!

This past weekend I went down to Columbia College (here in Chicago!) for the annual Chicago Book Expo . I'm fairly modest when it comes to purchasing books and journals. I simply don't have the income to buy as much as I want. My priority first and foremost is to support my friends--thus I bought Pig Park while at T he Book Cellar . Anyway, I just HAD to buy a journal called the Court Green when I saw that they had a section in a particular volume dedicated to James Schuyler. Fans of this blog know that that's my boy. It always seems that around this time of year I like to spotlight his poem December ("Katherine going on five" is Katherine Koch who contributed an article about Jimmy in the Court Green ) and the Zen-like Advent. Here is a throwback to an earlier blog: I Just Can't Help Myself , where I have written out part/all of these poems. --The day looks warmer than it is. Jimmy and Liz by Fairfield Porter

2014 was a momentous one for my critique group. Myself an another member both came out with books. Check out: PIG PARK by Claudia Gualalupe Martinez CLICK HERE to order Aren't we the BEST! 2015 is bound to be even better.

Yesterday, Sunday, instead of services, my church joined with other groups across the city and country to protest the recent grand jury decisions and, in general, the increase in aggressive policing tactics. I attend a multi-generational, multi-ethnic church so there are always lots of opinions—in this instance we were on the same page.   I was proud of us and the energy that went into the message. There was art, singing, and performance; we certainly got people’s attention. The most powerful demonstration was when we put “bodies”—clothes stuffed to look like bodies out in the middle of the road with sheets covering them. The sheets had names (representing several recent policing fatalities) painted on them in black lettering.  Now for a self-revelation: I was really uncomfortable during the protest. I didn’t want to walk in the road, stop traffic, or perform civil disobedience. It wasn’t that I was afraid because in a heart beat I’ll speak up or unwisely intervene in

Do you remember these? Every Christmas all four of us kids would find a Book of candy Life Savers in our stocking. Right away I’d eat my favorites—what were they?—most likely wintOgreen and cherry. Then I’d move onto secondary ones. Until all that were left in the “book” were butterscotch and rum-flavored rolls. They might stay bookmarked well into February or March. Sometimes my sister and I would make trades. Swap one of hers for one of mine. The boys most likely gobbled theirs down before New Years. We came to expect the Book of Life Savers. Even the year Mom was in the hospital, we recognized that familiar oblong box sticking out of the cuff of our knit stockings. Even after we left home for college and one or two of us might return home for the holiday there would be a Book of Life Savers waiting for us. For my parents it might have been a throw-away gift, an easy pick, something they didn’t have to put much thought or effort into. But, for me, in the rearview

NEW from me--in time for Cyber Monday! 365 days of affirmations, positive thinking, and writer prompts. Check it out here at Amazon. Having a bad Monday? Get affirmed.

I have a confession to make: I’m a news junkie. Or rather a new confession: I used to be a news junkie. Growing up my mother rarely watched the news. It embarrassed me how uninformed my mother was. It made me wonder—her lack of curiosity. She could care less what was going on in the world as she went about her daily life. If I ever tried to engage her in the broader meaning of life she might answer me with what we were having for dinner. It’s not that she didn’t have opinions; she did; they just lacked any sort of basis in the real world. I probably gave her less credit than was due. This is probably the case with most mothers. Lurch forward thirty to forty years later. It is so much easier today to be a news junkie. You don’t have to try very hard. Headlines are constantly shouting at me. There are 2 newspapers in Chicago and the commuter rag, The Redeye . That’s print, and I seldom see a real newspaper these days. But, also, there’s the ubiquitous Internet where

On the eve of WWII Louise Keller and her family moved to the Philippine Islands. When the war broke out her father was away picking up the missionary school teacher in Manila and ended up separated from his family. Louise and her mother are eventually rounded up by the Japanese and placed into Allied internment camps for civilians. They are in one such camp—at a former university St. Tomas in Manila where this excerpt takes place. Louise has not seen her father for two years —since the war started—and has no idea where he is. Peter a young man the family met on the boat coming over is also interned at St. Tomas and is in possession of an illegal radio. Thanksgiving in St. Tomas I’ve heard it said that when a cup is mended it is actually strongest where the glue holds it together. Mother was like that—strong, but still fragile in places. We learned to lean on each other. Peter brought us news of victories in the Solomon Islands. Little by little, island-hopping, the A

He was in denial. She was being optimistic. He was living in the moment. She wanted to stay real. The doctors said it was terminal. His friends fixed up the room. Her friends walked the dog. His mother got the kids breakfast. Her mother kept the kids after school. The doctors said it may be a matter of months. They lived each day as if it were the last. They all pitched in to stand together. They made hay while the sun shined. This, they said, is all we have.

"That thing I was looking for back then is the same thing I’m looking for today. Affirmation, fitting in, fulfillment. A calling. Daily, I’m reminded that I’m still walking, still chasing, still swimming through unknown waters, still grappling with large, looming questions." Read more of my guest post by CLICKING HERE . Plus only 14 more days until 365 Affirmations for the Writer. Isn't it great to be affirmed--

Out soon, just in time for Christmas:   I'll put up links at Amazon and other Ebook distributors BEFORE THANKSGIVING

The 11th Annual Literal Literary Postcard Story Contest This is a micro-fiction writing contest. Here's how it works: 1) Send us a story and a postcard—the relationship can be as strong or as tangential as you like, so long as there is a clear connection between the story and the image. 2) If you don't have a postcard, just search on-line. 3) The story can be fiction or non-fiction; maximum length is 500 words. Prizes:   First Prize: $500   Second Prize: $250   Third Prize: $150 All winning entries will be published in Geist and on geist.com - See more at: http://www.geist.com/contests/postcard-contest/#sthash.ASTdmPgc.dpuf

·          Microfiction Monday Magazine Call For Submissions Online submissions accepted year-round. Microfiction Monday Magazine is seeking exceptional stories told in 100 words or less for publication every Monday. There are no restrictions on genre or content, just punch us in the chest with characters we can feel, images we can't get out of our heads, and stories that are complete despite their brevity. Artwork submissions are also welcome. For more information and how to submit visit microfictionmondaymagazine.com .

A million years ago I wrote a book. I send the manuscript to an editor. It was pulled from the slush pile and said editor called me. She liked it! There were changes. First it needed to go from a diary format to a prose narrative. That took re-working. After that I waited. Then MY editor sent a 10-page editorial letter with all kinds of comments and suggestions. Of course. I re-worked the novel. Then there were more changes. I waited. Finally, we had a book. I was so excited when I saw the cover. Then I saw galleys. Then there were advanced copies! After that I got a carton of books shipped to me. I was an author! Reviews came in. They were pretty good. I did readings and signed copies at bookstores. Then a bigger publishing house bought my publisher, and 6 months after the book was launched it was remaindered. But for some reason the house never optioned electronic rights and those reverted to me. Here is an excerpt from my historical YA novel. It is the story of a young

Things I’ve Collected Rocks (of course) Seashells (ditto) Buttons found on my walks State maps Empty Skoal cans Ruby red wine bottles Cobalt blue wine bottles Rusty license plates Whimsically-shaped candles (particularly ears of corn or cows) Odd light bulbs Old keys (I’m afraid to throw them away!) Thimbles (who uses these anymore?) Vintage books with the name Jane in the title If I look closely at my shelves littered with these random objects, I will find myself.

Pumpkin latte Pumpkin parfait Pumpkin flambé Pumpkin pie Pumpkin fries Pumpkin chai Pumpkin cheesecake Pumpkin pancakes Pumpkin shakes Pumpkin soup Pumpkin mousse Pumpkin juice Pumpkin oats Pumpkin compote Pumpkin floats Pumpkin spice Pumpkin diced Pumpkin n’ rice Pumpkin gelato Pumpkin dough-nos Pumpkin gumbo Oh pumpkin, late have I come to know ye

Lately thinking about mortality. Maybe it's because I have an impending birthday. Maybe it's because we're beginning to talk about retirement--not actually doing it, but the difficult conversation of "Are we ready?". Then there was the devastating news this week of a friend a few years younger than myself who got a terrible prognosis. It was like a punch in the gut. It's hard to talk about. In a phone call with my daughter who is only just getting started with all the big life decisions, I told her about my friend. Though she empathized and asked how I was doing, it wasn't something she could relate too. not yet. As it should be. I remember as a kid my mom telling me about a friend of hers who had cancer. "In every part of their body." Back then cancer was synonymous with death. Most people didn't recover. I remember thinking that isn't this what old people are supposed to do. Die. But not in their late forties, is what I'd like