Variation on a Spine Poem

I’ve been doodling around on my bookshelves when I should be writing so I solved the problem by taking a stab at a few “spine poems.” It seems a fitting way to observe National Poetry Month. Here’s today’s:

In the spirit of both #nationallibraryworkersday and #nationalpoetrymonth, here are a few books to go check out of your library. I call this variation on a #spinepoem. It’s what happens when someone puts a sticker on the spine of a book you could only find in a used bookstore.

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Small Towns, Big Stories

“Living in a small town…is like living in a large family of rather uncongenial relations. Sometimes it’s fun, and sometimes it’s perfectly awful, but it’s always good for you. People in large towns are like only-children.
― Joyce Dennys, Henrietta Sees It Through: More News From the Home Front 1942-1945

 

Hi, Friends,

I’m sharing my April newsletter here with my WordPress friends and it starts with a tiny commercial and a big ask.

From now through April 17, the e-book version of Casualties will be available to download for only $1.99.

Now I need all the help I can get to put the word out there. In fact, this is a great opportunity for you to check out the story and see what you think. If you’ve already read it then you know my book and you know your friends. If you think there’s a match, will you help us all to meet? Just share this post or this link with them: Casualties For $1.99. It takes them to a page where they can pick from Kindle, Nook, iBook or others to purchase and download.

Thank you. The “commercial” is now over and we return to our regularly scheduled musings, updates, and this month’s fabulous book giveaway. The theme? Small towns, the people they harbor, the books they inspire. And spring. Let’s not forget about spring.
Small Towns & Real Life
Readers often want to know how much of Casualties is based on my real life. The question makes me squirm more than I let on. No, I’m not Ruth and she isn’t someone I know. No, Robbie is not based on my son (although he remains suspicious). As for Casey? He’s my mystery man. He appeared completely out of the blue all set and ready to roll onto the pages of my story. It is true, though, that my experiences gave me a lot of raw material to draw from and I used it with abandon to make something new. Nowhere is this more true than when I created the town of Gershom, New Hampshire where Ruth grew up.

 

There is no Gershom. I didn’t take my hometown of Jefferson and slap another name on it. Those who know the area will recognize bits and pieces of several towns scattered in that part of the White Mountains (one, Lancaster, NH, is featured in the photo at the top of this letter). As I wrote, though, I realized that certain places could not be altered. They were stamped too deeply in my memory — in my bones, really. Robbie goes to find the brook he fished as a boy. I know the sound and smell of that brook and the bone-numbing chill that lasts even into August – it runs down the mountain past my parents’ house. I know the sound of gravel when Ruth’s car reaches the dirt road to her grandparents’ farm. It is the sound that used to wake my then four-year-old son from a deep sleep and cause him to twitch with anticipation as we drove the last mile of our trip on “Gramma’s Bumpy Road.”

 

This was the remote place that frightened and thrilled me when we moved there in 1966 from suburban Connecticut. This was the place that quickly seemed too small for all I hoped to do and see in the world. This was the place where I was introduced to a telephone party line and the realization that in a town of less than a thousand people, you didn’t need a party line to share information. This was the place where I “came of age” with all the joys, humiliations and growing pains that come with that. This is the place that, no matter how far away I’ve gotten from it, remains home.

 

Nearly a year ago, I went back home to Jefferson to share my book with the people who helped me write it. Some of the landmarks encountered in my story when Robbie goes north to see his relatives and when Ruth finally winds her way up the dirt road to her grandparents’ home were waiting for me last spring when I arrived. Here are a couple of them. You can find more here: Robbie’s Places.

This Month’s Giveaway 

 

 

Kathleen M. Rodgers also grew up in a small town. She understands the dynamics and, boy, does she understand families. Her grasp of the complexities that reside in both villages and families is on full display in her latest novel, Seven Wings to Glory, released April 1. I was invited to write a “blurb” for this fine book and here it is:

“From the start of Seven Wings to Glory, Kathleen Rodgers skillfully shows how no town is small enough and no family perfect enough to be outside the reach of war, racism, and the heartbreak life hands out on a regular basis to all those who love. She especially shines when she gives us a young man who could easily have been seen as a villain but is much more complex than that and requires more from the central characters and his small town than they may be prepared to give. With this wonderful sequel to her novel, Johnnie Come Lately, Rodgers opens the reader’s eyes and heart.”

This month’s giveaway is a signed copy of Seven Wings to Glory. If you’d like to enter to win, just comment here or, if you are already a newsletter subscriber, just reply to me before midnight PST on Sunday, April 9. I will use an app from Random.org to draw a winner.Thank you for being with me on this journey and for sharing your thoughts with me in emails and discussions. I have loved every minute and look forward to more!

Gratefully,
Betsy

P.S. Here’s your moment of Zen: spring in the Desert, spring on the Coast. And for my family and friends back in Jefferson – may spring find you soon, very soon!

 

Todays Walk: It Begins

It begins when I know that silence will hurt me and those I love, when the comfort of my life will not insulate me from the damage that will afflict millions for years to come if I am silent.

It begins with a 4 a.m. ride to the airport on Inauguration Day to catch a 6:30 a.m. flight to Baltimore. It begins with the bleary eyes and determined smiles of enough marchers, many of them march-virgins like me, to fill a Southwest Boeing 737 plane. It begins with smiles and shouts of encouragement as we all stream off the plane four and a half hours later to wherever we have cadged housing for the weekend.

It begins the next morning when we start the way we start any walk. Boots on, coats zipped, uncertainty about what we will find. There are the last-minute pocket checks with husband and friends who are sharing their apartment with us so we can all march together today. It begins with a step, then another, and then the four of us melt into twenty, fifty, then hundreds who have abandoned the metro and are walking the two miles down to the place where we all intend to walk some more.

It begins with cutting across a park where mostly men and a few women who normally gather their to wait out one more homeless day watch our warmly-dressed selves flocking with other warmly-dressed people bearing signs, wearing smiles, not quite looking back at those who are watching.

It begins with sense we are close now, as we approach 7th street which is not far from the start, and is to be one of the places that, if all else, fails, will open and let us onto the march path when it is time. We feel the sense of arrival. Any minute now.

It begins with the press of bodies, the faces of children grinning from parental shoulders as they dodge signs toted by all those around them. We are body to body and more bodies keep coming as if the land itself is giving rise to them, birthing them in fertile bursts from all corners of the mall and beyond. I am minuscule cells in this giant swelling, sinuous, powerful muscle of humanity. Yet I am here. I am held up by the bodies around me. None of us can move single foot in any direction unless the others help us.

It begins with the understanding that we have, in fact, arrived. The official starting point is no longer reachable. The streets cannot contain us all and we’ve spilled out onto the mall, the side streets, the steps of stately buildings, lamp posts, the tops of rented vehicles used the previous day. When there is space, more bodies fill it. We must begin where we are. We must begin not knowing where it will lead. We must begin not knowing how long it will take, only knowing that to be here today is to commit to what is needed tomorrow, then the day after that, then the day after that.

It begins.

My Last Book Giveaway of the Year

Hi, All,
Just a short post to let you all know that I’m giving away two signed copies of CASUALTIES on Monday, December 12. Win one for you and one for a friend, or if you already have a copy – you’ll have special gifts for two friends. For details, just click below. Thanks for all your support!  Gratefully yours, Betsy

HOLIDAY BOOK GIVEAWAY

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Today’s Walk: A Quiet Dawn

“I haven’t got any special religion this morning.  My God is the God of Walkers.” –   Bruce Chatwin, In Patagonia

Sunday morning. The mist so thick I woke to the sound of water dripping from the edge of the roof outside my window. I went out to watch a “Super Moon” descend and the morning slowly claim the sky.

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I’ve been walking for well over a year now, not every day and not always as far as I would like, but it is now part of me. I look for that moment each day when I can get outside, get my feet moving, let the thoughts in my head go for a while. Walking has become as important to my writing as sitting in the chair.

Along the way, I usually find at least one thing that catches my eye or snags my attention and sometimes I just want to share it as I find it. No long essay. No attempt to make meaning other than what is right there. If the moment captured is not from the day I post, it means I have been casting back in my memory and photo records of my walks and unearthed a nugget I think you’ll like. I invite you to comment and share your own photos of “Todays Walk.” You can  post here or join me @EGMarro #todayswalk on Instagram, or on Twitter or Facebook.