tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31576553109807579652024-02-07T23:44:26.820-06:00The Roles of WritingGeralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-59855176116428399802015-10-24T12:15:00.002-05:002015-10-24T12:15:34.276-05:00G-LinesUntil I can figure out a redirect method, please visit my new website and blog <a href="http://www.ghesslaumagrady.com/" target="_blank">www.ghesslaumagrady.com</a>Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-55893682820768029112015-10-12T19:22:00.000-05:002015-10-12T19:22:03.304-05:00What's New?New post on the new blog that links to the new piece on the new website. So, that's what's new.<br />
<a href="http://www.g-lines.weebly.com/blog" target="_blank">www.g-lines.weebly.com/blog</a>Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-8800960617342829092015-10-09T17:45:00.001-05:002015-10-09T17:46:43.436-05:00A New BlogNow that the new website is underway with an attached BLOG tab, I hope you'll visit and subscribe at <a href="http://www.g-lines.weebly.com/" target="_blank">www.g-lines.weebly.com</a>. And while I'm at it, my writer's Facebook page is <a href="http://www.facebook.com/writer.ghesslaumagrady" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/writer.ghesslaumagrady</a>, and I can be found on Twitter @GHesslauMagrady. There's a lot of writing in store! Thanks for checking in!Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-39270014862518713772015-09-13T10:51:00.001-05:002015-09-13T10:51:21.349-05:00The Process and the WebsiteI have to say that this part of the writing process is more exciting than I ever expected. When the proofs for <i>LINES— </i>came in the mail, I was ecstatic! To finally see my novel coming to fruition? I can't explain the joy. My mom got teary-eyed when she saw the first page, and she immediately turned to my dad to tell him that I dedicated the book to them. He, too, got a little misty, and with everything we've gone through with Dad in the past few months, I was thankful to have this moment, to witness my parents' pride right then and there, not assume it with their existence on the other side. <br />
<br />
There were four books to pass out to a handful of readers, and then came the waiting game. My anxiety built with every passing day, dying to hear anything, good or bad, just a word to know how the story was panning out for them. Less than two weeks later, the texts came in, and to sum up the responses: all of the readers enjoyed the story, got attached to the characters (everyone loves Will!), were intrigued by the setting and historical events. However, my proof discussions were not gushing praise for a first-time writer. On the contrary, each reader was open about what confused them:<br />
* "Where's the historical fiction disclaimer?"<br />
* "It took too long to realize that Livia and Catherine were not sisters"<br />
* "I spent the whole first half of the book peeking in on Livia's daily life, and now I feel cheated by not having more details about what happened during the time lapse"<br />
* "I had to look up information about that march because you didn't give enough information to fully understand why the characters were there" <br />
The criticisms were welcomed because each reader had a positive experience but wanted more from the author. That's the kind of stuff I need to make me a better writer, to make the book a better story. I immediately started working on minor edits, but my reality is that I'm back in school with a new job and a ton of grading and lesson planning. I'll return to the major revisions in <i>LINES—</i> whenever I can, but overall, I'm delighted with the responses, and I couldn't be more grateful to these readers for their enthusiasm, support, and honest critiques. Nell, Theresa, Debbie B., and Russ: you are the best!<br />
<br />
Some people have asked if, now that I'm so close to completion, I'll change my mind about self-publishing and go the traditional route, instead. The answer is no. The feeling of accomplishment that has flourished with each step of this process is remarkable. I've developed a truer sense of ownership with <i>LINES— </i>by taking the time to experiment with formatting and selecting a book cover, to go through personal editing and seeking critiques, to learn about social media and finding an audience. It's been a rewarding whirlwind, and the bottom line is this: I'm a teacher. First and foremost, I teach. I see myself as one who plays with words and lines and descriptions, and I think this passion for writing, ultimately, makes me a more effective English teacher. I dabble with poetry and essays and journaling; I challenge myself with new ideas (I just submitted my first piece of flash fiction). If I was a professional writer/author, I'd probably want to find an editor and agent and publisher, but I'm proud to be a teacher who models the joy of writing. If a publisher wants to pick up the book after I've self-published, well, I'll reflect on that, but for now, I'm content with my blog, my chapbook, my handful of online publications, and... my starter-website! <br />
<br />
Yep. I keep hearing in my writing forums that every writer needs a website,
especially if a book is getting ready for publication. Not knowing much
about website creation, I did a Google search and found a free website option at Weebly.com. The result is an "under construction" site that I call "G-Lines." I'd love for you to check it out, and as always, feedback is appreciated. When the novel <i>LINES—</i> finally hits the publication stage, I'm going to randomly choose one subscriber for a free book, so be sure to "subscribe" on the home page.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://g-lines.weebly.com/" target="_blank">G-Lines: The official website for Geralyn Hesslau Magrady</a><br />
<br />
Thanks for your support! <br />
<br />
<br />Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-39291574322267675202015-08-04T19:59:00.001-05:002015-08-06T11:57:39.316-05:00The Book Cover for LINES—Here's a first attempt at writing the book cover synopsis. Your input matters... too wordy? interesting? Comments are encouraged.<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">In the 1870s and 1880s, railroad lines converge near Lake Michigan at the Great Central Depot, a hub for our country’s expanding commerce and travel. Livia Haas knows these lines well, for they carried her from the serene tobacco fields of Quakertown, PA to the tumultuous urban life of Chicago just prior to the Great Fire. <br /><br />Class and culture lines are witnessed by the grid-like pattern of city streets designed to keep apart the wealthy and poor, to define immigrant groups. A prayerful Livia comes to understand that these boundaries offer little hope for mingling in a society where lines are unjustly drawn.<br /><br />Strike lines—sometimes effective and sometimes violent—commence in an era of struggle for the eight hour day. The main character gets entangled in the fight, against the wishes of people who fear the consequences of disturbing those lines. <br /><br />Affected by a first love, a deceased brother, and a sinister acquaintance who endangers herself and family, Livia Haas is forced to question literal and personal lines, as well as those that exist in the lineage from which she is born.</span></span>Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-36859002794472483782015-07-20T09:39:00.004-05:002015-07-20T09:39:46.502-05:00One Thing Leads to AnotherThe poetry chapbook is available. The novel is in the proof, critique, and edit stage. Things are starting to come together!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Thing-Another-Geralyn-Hesslau-Magrady/dp/1514801523/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1437403025&sr=8-6&keywords=one+thing+leads+to+another" target="_blank">Amazon.com link</a><br />
<br />
<br />Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-17859990695866627012015-06-30T22:51:00.001-05:002015-06-30T23:56:09.843-05:00CloudedStephen's rock-shaped clouds<br />
inhale and exhale<br />
hurl across blue skies<br />
as breezes panic<br />
set off<br />
constricting condensation<br />
flesh deflation<br />
saintly metamorphosis into shallow hills<br />
<br />
Snake-like floatations<br />
pronounce life<br />
as celestial cemeteries<br />
where restless limbs<br />
and bones<br />
tremble with every gust<br />
until gravestones transform<br />
one by one<br />
a heart<br />
a kidney<br />
a lung<br />
escorted past heaven's gate<br />
readying to voice<br />
wisdom<br />
from Jonah's<br />
whale-shaped cloud <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-39090694629290245092015-06-20T23:13:00.000-05:002015-06-30T23:35:16.024-05:00I am the daughter of a legend<div style="text-align: left;">
I am the daughter of a legend, <br />
the daughter of a man who has touched lives across a spectrum of age and miles and time— </div>
an uncle and brother who my relatives adore, <br />
a coach who is still remembered and respected by many middle-aged men, <br />
a parishioner whose church members expect to see at early Mass, <br />
a neighbor whose block members depend on for a wave or jovial remark, <br />
a patron whose spot is saved for his weekly ritual, <br />
a loyal friend to those with whom he is in contact and also to those for whom he prays each day,<br />
an entertainer for all who know his wit. <br />
He is a husband who has stood the test of time (58 years to be exact) with faith and devotion; <br />
he is a father (and father-in-law) of children who have reciprocated his dedication;<br />
he is a grandfather who is loved dearly by those who have witnessed his family leadership. <br />
He is a legend. <br />
He is blessed as well as a blessing.<br />
<br />
Dad, I can’t explain what an honor it is to be your daughter. God did not plan to take you just yet, and I am grateful. I am grateful to have you around for another Father’s Day, for another Sunday, for another Day of any kind. Throughout this ordeal I have learned so much about you, about our family, and about myself. I have learned about selflessness and sacrifice, and what great joy those attributes can bring to ones heart. You are facing your fears with courage and tenacity, and even a sense of humor at times. I love you for all that you are, all that you believe, and all that you have taught me. I love you for being a legend without ever trying.<br />
<br />
For you, a prayer, the Memorare:<br />
<b>REMEMBER, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I fly to thee, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother; to thee do I come; before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me. </b><br />
<i>O, Blessed Mother, continue to watch over my dad and be his strength. Help him to follow the path our Lord has intended, and help us, his family and friends, to do what we need to do in order for him to live with grace and faith. </i><br />
<br />
Amen.Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-29197080571247877152015-04-30T22:49:00.000-05:002015-05-14T21:51:20.926-05:00Stay StrongStay Strong, my friend<br />
Stay Strong<br />
<br />
assumes that once I was<br />
assumes that now I am<br />
assumes I've got it in me to believe in what I stand<br />
<br />
Stay Strong, my friend <br />
Stay Strong<br />
<br />
deep down I know it's true<br />
deep down I know it's there<br />
deep down the pearl aches for the shell<br />
to lift, to say, "she's here"<br />
but strength is more than heads held high<br />
and strength is more than pride<br />
internal and external peace<br />
live freely, side by side<br />
when I am strong<br />
<br />
So, I'll listen to your words, my friend<br />
There's strength to carry on<br />
I'll find my way<br />
I'll stay, my friend<br />
I'm staying— staying strong.Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-90133270791507355932015-04-30T10:08:00.000-05:002015-04-30T22:43:22.336-05:00Can I have your attention?A message to my future graduates:<br />
I’ve had your attention for a while now, but after you walk down that aisle, your attention will never again exist for me. So, I’m taking this opportunity to grab it one last time.<br />
<br />
You are a blessing. If you don’t know it already, I want you to know it right here, right now. I need you to look at me... all eyes and ears on me... you are a BLESSING. Do you understand how much I mean that? Truly? <br />
<br />
You see, during this past year, my job became a breath of fresh air while I’ve dealt with grief and disbelief, bewildered by the depths of depression experienced by mid-life crises. Above and beyond marital stresses and health issues and financial woes—problems bound to burden mid-lifers—I’ve known of four people who not only thought about suicide but succumbed to it. What is happening? Is it the culture? Why such desperation where the only option is to take one's life? Depression can run so very deep, and my heart pains for those who suffer. There are no easy answers. Only questions to an epidemic that has a ripple effect on those left behind as the mourning and reaction, the loss and sorrow, continue to fester. I wish I had words of enlightenment, some kind of inspirational commentary. I don't. But I do have your attention one last time, so I need to use this moment to say something, and here it is: you are a blessing; you make me alive; you make me smile, make my days worthwhile, and I’ll repeat it over and over again until you get it, until I've drilled it into your minds and you believe it. YOU are a blessing. My God, what blessings you are!<br />
<br />
I wonder where you’ll be in five years, which college or employer is being blessed with your presence. Wherever you are, I hope you look in the mirror and see what I see today... a blessing. <br />
Fifteen years from now you might be settling down with a career and/or family... more people in this crazy world to embrace you as an integral person in their lives. Those people will be blessed, and if they don’t understand that, feel free to contact me, so I can share my message with them... you are a BLESSING.<br />
And thirty-five years from now? Well, you’ll be middle-aged, facing challenges that might seem too overwhelming to bear. And when you cross a bridge that’s creaking and swaying, readying itself to break and lose strength, I hope you remember my words from the last time I had your attention... <br />
<br />
YOU ARE A BLESSING, AND I THANK GOD FOR YOU!Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-18665111044436900022015-04-22T20:25:00.001-05:002015-04-22T20:25:48.455-05:00The Whistle<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4A65KuXoNTM" width="459"></iframe>Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-45923950315393839422015-04-12T22:25:00.001-05:002015-05-04T22:41:24.049-05:00Lines—As far as the book's editing process goes... well, it's going, but I'm determined to have the umpteenth draft in a satisfactory state before heading to the "Deep Revision" writing workshop in June. Fingers crossed! <br />
<br />
One optimistic point is this: I think I might have a new title for the novel-in-progress. <i>LINES—</i><br />
As this is Poetry Month, I worked a poem to highlight some of the lines that are addressed in the story. (I guess this could be called a poem-in-progress!)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
We’re holding still our thoughts on faith,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and biting tongues for chief estates,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
denying selves of destined mates—</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Will these straight lines create our fate?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Some drawn, some veiled, but all’s at stake </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
when those we sever make us ache,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
when those we heed suppress our sake—</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Which line will stir our souls awake?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Demanding truths to be exposed,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
we’ll risk the cuts by men opposed—</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Will we then live our passion’s prose?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Without the crossing, no one knows.</div>
Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-39251659413222972212014-08-12T21:40:00.002-05:002014-08-17T21:43:03.885-05:00THE FRIENDLY LOUNGEa corner counter and a stool<br />
<br />
that’s all it took, really, just<br />
a corner counter and a stool<br />
<br />
and the decadent, local brew—<br />
that’s all it took, really, just<br />
a corner counter and a stool<br />
<br />
and no matter the talented barista (my name they always knew)<br />
or the decadent, local brew—<br />
that’s all it took, really, just<br />
a corner counter and a stool<br />
<br />
and the music themed walls, background sounds, books to view<br />
and no matter the talented barista (my name they always knew)<br />
or the decadent, local brew—<br />
that’s all it took, really, just<br />
a corner counter and a stool<br />
<br />
and the patrons’ charm and chatter over a sip or two<br />
and the music themed walls, background sounds, books to view,<br />
and no matter the talented barista (my name they always knew)<br />
or the decadent, local brew—<br />
that’s all it took, really, just <br />
a corner counter and a stool<br />
<br />
What they say about this place is true.<br />
“You are a stranger here but once,” because of the interesting crew<br />
and the patrons’ charm and chatter over a sip or two<br />
and the music themed walls, background sounds, books to view,<br />
and no matter the talented barista (my name they always knew)<br />
or the decadent, local brew—<br />
that’s all it took, really, just<br />
a corner counter and a stool<br />
<br />
<br />
** Thanks, Rob (and Debbie, Lee, and Dan), for one of the most productive and enjoyable summers a teacher/coffee drinker/writer could ask for!Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-40307265972084826382014-08-12T12:52:00.000-05:002015-05-25T19:17:18.221-05:00The MADRIGAL format-----------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
RAIN DROPS<br />
<br />
They patter, these rain drops, on leaves still green<br />
with summer’s breath, recalling dreams of you.<br />
But then, again, the sun and snow do, too.<br />
<br />
The nightingale is friend and sets me free<br />
to weather days of clouds and changing hues.<br />
They patter, these rain drops, on leaves still green<br />
with summer’s breath, recalling dreams of you.<br />
<br />
When morning comes, your image fades. I wean<br />
my thoughts and wash away your voice, renewed.<br />
And then I am reminded by the dew. <br />
They patter, these rain drops, on leaves still green<br />
with summer’s breath, recalling dreams of you.<br />
But then, again, the sun and snow do, too.<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
SEEN <br />
<br />
The dirt is dug; the box is slowly hauled<br />
to this, his resting place where grass is green,<br />
and though the flag will fly, his life’s unseen.<br />
<br />
The husband, dad, and son who had been called,<br />
who answered with a conscience proud and clean.<br />
The dirt is dug; the box is slowly hauled<br />
to this, his resting place where grass is green.<br />
<br />
Crossing enemy lines, the chaos stalled.<br />
He heard his baby cry across the sea,<br />
the fatherless who honors land that’s free.<br />
The dirt is dug; the box is slowly hauled<br />
to this, his resting place where grass is green,<br />
and though the flag will fly, his life’s unseen<br />
<br />
to all but those who honor land that’s free.<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
TIME<br />
<br />
The pages turn to when I’m in my prime.<br />
I sigh. Reality is hard to face<br />
when knowing you’re gone and can’t be replaced.<br />
<br />
Sons grow—already five-seven, five-nine—<br />
these teens, who kiss me still before they race.<br />
The pages turn to when I’m in my prime.<br />
I sigh. Reality is hard to face.<br />
<br />
What happened to the future that was mine?<br />
You chisel away at such a quick pace,<br />
and as you pass, I pray I age with grace.<br />
The pages turn to when I’m in my prime.<br />
I sigh. Reality is hard to face<br />
when knowing you’re gone and can’t be replaced.<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
LIVIA: MY HEROINE<br />
<br />
Together we discovered who we are.<br />
And yet, dear friend, it's time to set you free.<br />
I need to live beyond our history.<br />
<br />
Your character became my shining star.<br />
Your conflicts kept me from much needed sleep.<br />
Together we discovered who we are.<br />
And yet, dear friend, it's time to set you free.<br />
<br />
Still flawed, it's true, but I will leave you marred.<br />
It's what we learned about ourselves, you see;<br />
a perfect world was never guaranteed. <br />
Together we discovered who we are.<br />
And yet, dear friend, it's time to set you free.<br />
I need to live beyond our history.<br />
--------------------------------------------------------- Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-25064918349125687002014-07-05T23:30:00.005-05:002014-07-20T17:37:45.051-05:00Stars on LandA sonnet originally written for my main characters, Livia and Will.<span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /><br />How bright my world could be, if in your hand<br />I place my own! But fear will fiercely pound,<br />as quickly as my heart upon the sound<br />of words so dear from lips I understand.<br /><br />Your shimmer leads to grief as fine as sand.<br />And if the lights connect across the ground,<br />the constellation Truth will then be found.<br />I can not stand too close to stars on land.<br /><br />Without a glow, what then will come of night?<br />How can I find my way through streets so dim?<br />If not with you beside me as I tread—<br />companion to my soul, my eyes for sight—<br />there is no sun or moon; the path is grim.<br />Our fingers touch; the stars inflame ahead.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-49245743181827548852014-06-25T01:54:00.000-05:002014-07-25T11:12:43.939-05:00HowlNever touched.<br />
Forever felt.<br />
Like wind<br />
and spirit. <br />
<br />
Your howl is<br />
heard in the<br />
whispers of<br />
sweet sorrow.<br />
<br />
Like wind<br />
and spirit. <br />
Forever felt.<br />
Never touched.Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-60377960346111105552014-05-24T22:40:00.002-05:002014-05-24T23:00:58.756-05:00In my own words...I'm trying to spend a few hours with my book this weekend. I have so much editing and rewriting to do, it's overwhelming. But every once in a while, I come across a line that inspires me to keep the faith. Here are three of my favorite lines from the novel-in-progress:<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: blue;">I don’t condone defiance toward God, ya see, but won’t I forever encourage the questioning of mere men.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: purple;">I long for night, for sleep. People think it’s because of fatigue, but it’s not. When I close my eyes, you come back to me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: red;">Each time we lower our heads and turn away, we allow the establishment to continue their cruelties, and they use our silence as their protection. We are their victims, and we are their shields!</span></b>Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-86749637320469122152014-04-17T00:16:00.000-05:002018-02-06T16:52:50.986-06:00An Elegy for Jack Kerouac (Poem a Day Challenge, Day 16)Aww, Jack, we stood,<br />
you and me,<br />
in my dreams, on the road,<br />
whoopin’ it up in the heavens on<br />
<b>earth</b><br />
where our dreams—<br />
tiny pebbles—<br />
were dropped and rippled along<br />
the waves,<br />
cast out to sea,<br />
real dreams, real <b>waters</b>,<br />
real like the <b>winds</b> on Desolation Peak<br />
real like the <b>flames</b> in your head<br />
that would speak<br />
to you, <br />
and through you,<br />
to me.<br />
<br />
Aww, Jack, we were free,<br />
you and me,<br />
in my dreams, on the road,<br />
angelic<br />
beatific<br />
prolific<br />
on life’s journey where we danced<br />
high<br />
above the clouds <br />
of <b>gusting</b> dust and<br />
smoke<br />
swirling behind the tail-<br />
pipe<br />
as we zipped along this sacred <b>soil</b>,<br />
our souls <b>splashed</b> and re-<br />
baptized,<br />
bare and blessed,<br />
caressed,<br />
<b>fired</b> up with every step<br />
when we’d meet and greet<br />
the beings of human-<br />
ity.<br />
<br />
Aww, Jack, what a pity,<br />
you and me<br />
were only in my dreams,<br />
on the road,<br />
picking lotus flowers<br />
lush along the path of<br />
enlightenment,<br />
left to suffer<br />
with nirvana never found.<br />
To be true,<br />
on this road,<br />
in this God-forsaken world,<br />
you were holy sent<br />
but never in your <br />
element.<br />
<br />
Aww, Jack, I pray that you,<br />
not me,<br />
that you <br />
(and Sal, maybe)<br />
through death<br />
found peace<br />
found paradise,<br />
that your soul didn't have to pay a price<br />
and could finally burn,<br />
<br />
“burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow<br />
roman candles exploding like spiders <br />
across the stars <br />
and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop <br />
and everybody goes<br />
‘Awww!’"Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-81407806272519445942014-04-13T13:01:00.000-05:002014-07-01T09:23:36.159-05:00GO CHARGERS! (Poem a Day Challenge, Day 13 - an animal sestina)<br />
<span class="userContent"><span style="color: red;"><i>Today we are encouraged to write an animal
sestina (in a nutshell, a 39 line/7 stanza poem with rotating ending
form of the same six words while using iambic pentameter... right?).
Definitely the most challenging poem to date. At least there wasn't
pressure to rhyme. Here goes:</i></span><br /> </span><br />
<br />
The charger’s chosen first for ev’ry battle<br />
to lead its troop to certain victory,<br />
so all the town can raise their flags and cheer.<br />
The soldiers ride, heads high and filled with pride,<br />
adored by all, accomplishing their goal.<br />
They praise each horse for being such great sports.<br />
<br />
A mascot for their school in ev’ry sport, <br />
the charger represents athletic battles.<br />
To play with honor is the major goal,<br />
of course, they’d like to see a victory.<br />
No matter win or loss they end with pride.<br />
No matter win or loss the fans will cheer.<br />
<br />
To morning games we travel with good cheer.<br />
We pray for pleasant temps with this fast sport,<br />
as Chargers take the field with schooling pride.<br />
Opponents block and trap in this great battle<br />
as crowds cry out to fight for victory.<br />
And finally we clap as refs call, “Goal!”<br />
<br />
On courts they shoot for two or three field goals<br />
with sideline rivals chanting fervent cheers.<br />
The Chargers strive for OT victory;<br />
the Lions want to dominate the sport.<br />
And so it goes, the steal a key in battle,<br />
long pass, down low, the lay up brings us pride!<br />
<br />
They join, the boys, for fun with full school pride.<br />
To strengthen skills with each new set, the goal.<br />
The girls, though, serve and spike in focused battle.<br />
A winning match received with joy and cheer.<br />
I’ve got it! OUT! It’s mine! A vocal sport,<br />
a lively treat despite a victory.<br />
<br />
For school and independent victory<br />
they run with steady speed and pacing pride.<br />
Endurance crucial for this graceful sport,<br />
each stride and eyes determined on the goal. <br />
Awaiting lines they’ll cross to such great cheer,<br />
each meet, the stars prepare with mental battle.<br />
<br />
The Chargers battle on for victory,<br />
Each teammate cheering on Ascension pride.<br />
Play hard, set goals, respect the school and sport.Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-42132986221669685472014-04-13T01:09:00.000-05:002014-04-13T09:56:44.664-05:00A City Poem (Poem a Day Challenge, Day 12)A friend can laugh but keep the story<br />
of silly stupors, on tangents we'd go,<br />
in all our glitz and youthful glory<br />
we'd blend with stars and steal the show.<br />
And if one traveled too close to the sun,<br />
the other reminded, it’s all in fun.<br />
<br />
But, no! You’re so much more than fun!<br />
You filled a void both wide and deep.<br />
A pressure valve released, I'd run<br />
to magical trances on your streets.<br />
For life, at times, we could not bear;<br />
we needed a place and people to share.<br />
<br />
Ah, yes! You were the place I'd share<br />
with those who needed serenity, too.<br />
Together we rambled, a nightly affair,<br />
until we had to pay our due.<br />
When daybreak brought us back to woe,<br />
this city was both my friend and foe!<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
<u><b><span style="color: red;">A City Poem #2</span></b></u></h3>
CHICAGOU <br />
<br />
Prairie of Potawatomi pride<br />
Discovery of Domingan and du Sable<br />
A Fort on the river<br />
<br />
Blood of the Black Hawk Wars<br />
Ashes of the great conflagration<br />
Second and windy<br />
<br />
Hub to railroads<br />
Liar to immigrant dreams<br />
The White City<br />
<br />
Home of Hull House<br />
Riots of Haymarket Square<br />
The Jungle<br />
<br />
The Race Riots<br />
The White Sox<br />
The Black Sox<br />
<br />
Wrigley Field curses<br />
Super Bowl Sweetness<br />
Three-peat, Three-peat Bulls<br />
<br />
Oprah<br />
<br />
Skyscrapers and projects<br />
Gardens and ghettos<br />
Limos and cabs and buses and bikes<br />
The El<br />
<br />
Gourmet and comforting<br />
Irish, Italian, Mexican, Polish,<br />
Asian, Ukranian, German,<br />
Jamaican, Ethiopian, Puerto Rican...<br />
<br />
Chicagoan.Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-22175636679020500632014-04-08T14:12:00.001-05:002015-01-31T15:55:29.417-06:00The Whistle (Poem a Day Challenge, Day 8 - Violence prompt)<style>
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<br />
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(The murder of Emmett Till) <br />
<br />
Did he whistle?</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He did.</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No, sir.</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I do not recall.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Who the hell cares about the whistle?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the Chicago boy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
just 14</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that 14-year-old Negro boy<br />
from Chicago </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
who whistled,</div>
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whistled while down visiting Money,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Money, Mississippi</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
who whistled at a white woman—</div>
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he shoulda known not to </div>
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not to whistle at no woman</div>
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no white woman</div>
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shoulda known not to whistle at no white woman </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
while down in Mississippi</div>
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when you’re a 14-year-old boy</div>
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from Chicago</div>
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when you’re a Negro boy</div>
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no matter the age and </div>
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birthplace</div>
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but especially when you’re a </div>
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14-year-old Negro boy from up north</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from Chicago.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but they say he did it</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that he done whistled</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that he done whistled at the white woman</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and so they came for him</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the white woman’s husband and his brother</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
they came for the Negro boy who whistled</div>
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<br /></div>
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found him in his uncle’s house</div>
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asleep in the black of night</div>
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found the Negro boy asleep, not thinking</div>
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about the whistle</div>
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but the husband and brother sure were</div>
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and they roused that boy</div>
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that Negro boy and kidnapped ‘im</div>
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took ‘im away to teach ‘im a lesson</div>
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teach ‘im a lesson is what they done did</div>
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<br /></div>
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carry ‘im out back </div>
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to the car</div>
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drive ‘im down the road</div>
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to the farm</div>
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shoot ‘im in the head</div>
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to the sound of drunken laughter</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
tie ‘em<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with wire</div>
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to the cotton gin</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
mess up his face and ears just for fun</div>
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drag him to the river ‘fore the rising of the sun</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
walkin’ aways as if a battle they’d won</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a battle between </div>
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power and<br />
power-<br />
less-<br />
ness</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a battle between a </div>
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deranged society and a boy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a 14-year-old boy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a 14-year-old Negro boy from Chicago</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
who whistled</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
who dared to whistle</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
whistle at a white woman</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
while visiting Money, Mississippi.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That whistle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did he whistle?</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He did.</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No, sir.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I do not recall.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who the hell cares about the whistle?</div>
Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-72083438625939539012012-10-08T12:41:00.001-05:002014-03-27T17:50:42.752-05:00Flippin' Pages<span style="color: blue;">(Just a start, for something, not sure...)</span><br />
<br />
Though she enjoyed at least one cup of joe each morning, she never dreamt of it, and yet, leasing the old coffeehouse in town was going to be a dream come true. At least that was the hope. The ambiance was completely different now with only a few exceptions. There was still a sitting area to the left of the door in the windowed alcove overlooking the street, but the metal chairs and small, round tables were replaced with reupholstered wing-chairs from the local Salvation Army with outdated magazines and journals from the library and barbershop perfectly splayed on a chipped coffee table donated by neighbors who couldn’t sell it at their last garage sale. The cash register remained at center behind the heavy mahogany counter. She couldn’t possibly have found a more tasteful furniture piece, and though it took up more room than she wanted, being three-sided and waist-high, it seemed to fit, and its outer shelves that used to house various mugs and coffee beans, now featured her recommended book collection, with self-written reviews on little placards placed beside each title, a time-consuming chore, but one she did with passion for a personal flare.<br />
And then there was the al fresco mural, kept but nearly invisible. The scenery on the wall was completely obscured so that a patron could only catch a glimpse of a patch of leaves, a hidden fig, or a single sprawling vine, when removing a text from its nestled spot. Perhaps, the avid reader wouldn’t even notice the masterpiece at all. It was a shame, really, to conceal the tranquil creation of some unknown artist, but a bookstore needed shelves - lots of them, floor to ceiling, corner to corner - and with the limited space available, there was no choice but to blanket the artwork with a sturdy grid of hardy planks, mini scaffolds to hold and protect the weight of treasures, row after row.<br />
<i>Not long now</i>, she thought, with a wide smile beneath her fingertips as she scanned the single room. Her index finger tapped on her lips to the beat of an Italian love song, its words she couldn’t comprehend, but the melody was soft and pleasing, like all of the tunes on the CD left behind by the former owner. She would turn it off, of course, when she finally opened the door for business, but it was the only selection she played while setting up the place, having downloaded all her music and selling all of her discs for the $150 advertisement bill:<br />
<br />
<b>FLIPPIN’ PAGES</b><br />
<br />
<b>Grand Opening this Saturday, May 2</b><br />
<b>10 a.m. - 2 p.m.</b><br />
<b>A gently Used Book Store and Book Club meeting place</b><br />
<b>(Tutoring Services available)</b><br />
<br />
<b>Bring in five gently used books of any genre and get </b><br />
<b>ONE BOOK FREE</b><br />
<b>with your first purchase.</b><br />
<br />
<i>What’s taking him so long?</i> she said out loud when noticing the battery-operated clock above the entrance. There was just one hour to go, and her husband had not yet returned from the bank where he was instructed to exchange two twenty-dollar bills for quarters and singles.<br />
From the corner of her eye, she viewed the cubbies lining the picture window on the entry way’s right side. The glass declared “Flippin’ Pages,” etched in frosted letters, and she had cleaned it several times already, finding missed streaks each time, but the paper-towels were still sitting among the tutoring pamphlets and “how-to” books. She retrieved the roll and shook her head at herself. <i>You really need more non-fiction.</i> A couple of cookbooks, do-it-yourself house repair, writers’ manuals, sports-related digests, animal encyclopedias, atlases and map collections, history texts... but absolutely nothing for the gardener or traveler.<br />
<i> You’ll get there.</i><br />
The well-shined knob clicked, and the wooden door creaked open. His presence startled her.<br />
“I’ma come in. Yes,” he stated, not a question or request - a statement.<br />
She wanted to say, <i>“No. No you won’ta come in. Come back at ten,”</i> but instead she accepted him cordially. “Of course, you can. Welcome.”Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-3666506868367352682011-11-01T22:35:00.032-05:002011-12-04T00:38:26.323-06:00Books for which I am thankful...<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}"><span class="messageBody translationEligibleUserMessage" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span style="color: purple; font-size: small;">Blogging and personal writing have been nearly non-existent since the school year began. This month, however, will have an ongoing post. Throughout November, I will be posting a quote from books for which I am thankful. I encourage you to add your own quotes/books in the comment section, and please let me know if you've read any of these great works!</span></span></h6>23. "To lose love is a terrible thing... But to turn away from it is unbearable. Will you spend the rest of your life replaying it in your head? Wondering if you walked away too soon or too easily? Or if you'll ever love anyone that deeply again?"<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Kristin Hannah, <i>Winter Garden</i></span><br />
<br />
22. “The most dangerous thing we can believe is that we are not the authors of our fate. God gave us reason, conscience. We must use it. To say that our life, our world, just<i> is</i> the way that it is, that we do not play a part - I think it is the worst kind of cowardice.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Kelly O’Connor McNees, <i>The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott</i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
21. “Any woman who is sure of her own wits is a match at any time for a man who is not sure of his own temper.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Wilkie Collins, <i>A Woman in White</i></span><br />
<br />
20. "The incompetent always present themselves as experts, the cruel as pious, sinners as devout, usurers as benefactors, the small-minded as patriots, the arrogant as humble, the vulgar as elegant, and the feeble-minded as intellectual."<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Carlos Ruiz Zafon, <i>The Angel’s Game</i></span><br />
<br />
19. “A birth is not really a beginning. Our lives at the start are not really our own but only the continuation of someone else's story.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Diane Setterfield, <i>The Thirteenth Tale</i></span> <br />
<br />
18. “You’re so good at pretending, you’re even tricking yourself.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Emma Donoghue, <i>Room</i></span><br />
<br />
17. “How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Theodore Dreiser, <i>Sister Carrie</i></span><br />
<br />
16. “It'll be a change," says Marcus. "Something different." <br />
"Not a mystery." <br />
Marcus laughs. "No. Not a mystery. Just a nice safe history." <br />
“Ah, my darling. But there is no such thing.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Kate Morton, <i>The House at Riverton</i></span> <br />
<br />
15. “Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Markus Zusak, <i>The Book Thief</i></span><br />
<br />
14. "They're certainly entitled to think that, and they're entitled to full respect for their opinions... but before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience."<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Harper Lee, <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i></span><br />
<br />
13. "Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves."<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Emily Bronte, <i>Wuthering Heights</i></span><br />
<br />
12. “Why did you do all this for me?" he asked. "I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.”<br />
“You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">E.B. White, <i>Charlotte’s Web</i></span><br />
<br />
11. “But the rest are even scared to open up and laugh. You know, that's the first thing that got me about this place, that there wasn't anybody laughing. I haven't heard a real laugh since I came through that door, do you know that? Man, when you lose your laugh you lose your footing.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Ken Kesey, <i>One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest</i></span><br />
<br />
10. “He was BEAT — the root, the soul of Beatific.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Jack Kerouac, <i>On the Road</i></span><br />
<br />
9. "A man ain't nothing but a man. But a son? Well, now, that's somebody"<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Toni Morrison, <i>Beloved</i></span><br />
<br />
8. "There is one kind of prison where the man is behind bars, and everything that he desires is outside; and there is another kind where things are behind bars, and the man is outside."<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Upton Sinclair, <i>The Jungle</i></span><br />
<br />
7. “... there is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. When you kill a man, you steal a life... you steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness... there is no act more wretched than stealing.” <br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">- Khaled Hosseini, <i>The Kite Runner </i></span><br />
<br />
6. “The discomfort of that gaze, its disconcerting combination of impenetrability and knowingness, affected me intensely, producing a kind of paralysis of will. I felt that she knew me instantly for what I was, and for who I was, in all my disguises. It appeared to me that those eyes had taken in all the degradations of my life, and recorded all my doings committed beneath the light of heaven, or the cloak of night; that they saw, too, what I was capable of, and what, with time and opportunity, I would do. I suddenly felt unaccountably afraid of her; for I knew then that I would have no choice but to love her, with nothing given back.”<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">- Michael Cox, </span><i style="color: blue;">The Meaning of Night</i><span style="color: blue;"> </span><br />
<br />
5. “She told us that both our grandmothers were angry because neither Lori nor I had been named after them, so she decided to call the baby Lilly Ruth Maureen. Lilly was Mom’s mother’s name, and Erma Ruth was Dad’s mother’s name. But we’d call the baby Maureen, a name Mom liked because it was a diminutive of Mary, so she’d also be naming the baby after herself but pretty much no one would know it. That, Dad told us, would make everyone happy except his mom, who hated the name Ruth and wanted the baby called Erma, and Mom’s mom, who would hate sharing her namesake with Dad’s mom.”<br />
<br />
-<span style="color: blue;"> Jeannette Walls, </span><i style="color: blue;">The Glass Castle</i><br />
<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">4. </span><span style="font-size: small;">"</span><span style="font-size: small;">When you're five, you know your age down to the month. Even in your twenties you know how hold you are. I'm twenty-three, you say, or maybe twenty-seven. But then in your thirties something strange starts to happen. It's a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation. How old are you? Oh, I'm--you start confidently, but then you stop. You were going to say thirty-three, but you're not. You're thirty-five. And then you're bothered, because you wonder if this is the beginning of the end. It is, of course, but it's decades before you admit it."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">- Sara Gruen, <i>Water for Elephants</i> </span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span> </div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">3. "Bodies may be tortured. They may even die. But the spirit goes on. And if a person is part of family, the spirit is housed anew in another body each time a child builds his home as a branch of his parents'. In this way, every father and every mother, every grandfather and every grandmother, goes on living in children and grandchildren."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: blue; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">- Naomi Ragen, <i>The Ghost of Hannah Mendes</i></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">2. "Success today would dispel at last the eastern perception that Chicago was nothing more than a greedy, hog-slaughtering backwater; failure would bring humiliation from which the city would not soon recover, given how heartily its leading men had boasted that Chicago would prevail. It was this big talk, not the persistent southwesterly breeze, that had prompted New York editor Charles Anderson Dana to nickname Chicago <i>the Windy City.</i>"</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">- Erik Larson, </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i style="color: blue;">The Devil in the White City</i></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>1. “Fools talk, cowards are silent, wise men listen.”</b></span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> </b></span></div><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">- Carlos Ruiz Zafon,</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i style="color: blue;"> The Shadow in the Wind</i></span><span style="color: blue;"> </span><br />
<i> </i>Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-64463848776220723482011-09-11T08:13:00.000-05:002014-03-29T01:16:49.215-05:00September 11thIt was September 11, 2001. I had a 22-month old and 5-month old. It was early. I heard the phone ring, but I was busy with the boys. I didn't pay attention to the message or wonder who had called. I assumed it was my mother and would return the call when I had finished changing the infant's diaper and cleaning up the toddler's breakfast mess. But something told me to check the answering machine right away, not to wait, and so I did. It was Lorie's voice, the voice of my childhood friend/maid-of-honor/partner and confidante in life's ups and downs. The voice was uncharacteristically shaken. "Ger, you have to turn on the news. A plane flew into the World Trade Center." I was holding the baby when I pressed the power button on the remote, and just as the screen turned from black to vivid image, I saw the billowing smoke from the tops of the towers and thought, "No way." Then the replay of the events were shown, the first building already ablaze, a commercial plane careening smack into the second building, the horror on the faces of journalists, and the unstated reality that some kind of evil plan was being carried out in New York. "Dear God," I started, but the rest of the prayer didn't come. I was mute and held my baby tightly. I took both boys into the playroom and turned on a Thomas the Tank Engine movie to occupy them while I called my friend. Our ears were on the handsets, but our eyes were glued to the televisions, every channel and every citizen mesmerized and stunned, almost in a trance of disbelief. "What is happening? HOW is this happening?" The questions were unstoppable, and then another crash was reported at the Pentagon; we refrained from admission of our country being under attack because that would mean we weren't as powerful or untouchable or... safe. But the towers fell. Those mighty steel structures disintegrated into a warzone scene of clouds and dust, engulfing the streets and skies, and even though I had the sound set low, I could hear the screams of those trapped, of those running to escape, of those trying desperately to save others. I could hear the sirens and the explosions; I could feel the confetti-like debris on my goosebumped arms and wet eyelashes. Lorie and I hung up before the story started to unfold about the crash in Shanksville, PA, and while my heart continued to pound, and my mind continued to swirl, I stepped outside on the front porch amid the silence that I never noticed before. Living close to an airport, that deafening silence will forever hold a place in my heart, that sign that life was standing still, and I wouldn't have hope again until I heard another plane fly overhead. I wanted to be with all the people that meant the most in my life. I wanted to see my boys smile, but I couldn't keep myself away from the news reports. I knew our world was now changed, and I finally finished my prayer. I knelt on the living room floor and bent across the couch with clasped hands, and I asked the Lord for answers, for resolution, for peace, for blessings bestowed on all those who lost their lives and for their loved ones who had to carry on without them, for my children's safety and happiness in a world that was now turned upside-down.<br />
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Where were you on September 11, 2001?Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3157655310980757965.post-3065704818265430652011-08-11T10:51:00.001-05:002011-08-11T10:53:56.506-05:00Good News!Please check out my book review (posted today!) at <a href="http://thenewbookreview.blogspot.com/">http://thenewbookreview.blogspot.com/</a>. AND checkout my writers' tid-bit article (posted today!) at <a href="http://penandprosper.blogspot.com/">http://penandprosper.blogspot.com/</a>. What a day!Geralynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17932826825892279822noreply@blogger.com5