Western North Carolina Women Writers

I am tickled pink to be able to share some fun news. Four anthologies from Western North Carolina Women Writers are now available in Kindle format:

It's All Relative: Tales from the Tree: from 50 WNC Women Writers, 

Women's Spaces Women's Places: from 50 WNC Women Writers, 

Clothes Lines: from 75 western North Carolina women writers, and 

Christmas Presence: from 45 western North Carolina women writers. 

All four were edited by the awesome and uber talented Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham.  I love these women.

I am proud to be a part of three of the anthologies. 

Clothes Lines will always hold a special place in my heart as it was my first time being published. And to be published between the covers of the same book with the likes of former NC Poet Laureate Kathryn Stripling Byer, Isabel Zuber, Joan Medlicott and so many other accomplished writers still knocks me over. 

I hope you'll buy every one of them and fall in love with some of the talented women of Western North Carolina.

Where I'll be . . .

On Sunday, February 28 at 3:00, I'll be joining Nancy Dillingham, Celia Miles (editors and contributors) along with other contributors to the latest anthology from women authors of Western North Carolina.

If you're in the Asheville, NC area, I hope you'll drop by Malaprop's Books to help us celebrate the release of "It's All Relative: Tales from the Tree."

Rob Neufeld writes in the Citizen-Times “there’s a shadowy, down-to-earth and at times magical quality to the telling that makes the collection striking and significant.”

From Celia's webpage:

It’s All Relative: Tales from the Tree

Pundits have a penchant for comparing families to food…

Best-selling author, columnist, and Pulitzer Prize winner Anna Quindlen proclaims:

“In the family sandwich the older people and the younger ones can recognize one another as the bread. Those in the middle are, for a time, the meat.”

Journalist and social activist Letty Collin Pogrebin says:

“If the family were a fruit, it would be an orange, a circle of sections, held together but inseparable—each segment distinct.”

An old Chinese proverb cautions: “Govern a family as you would cook a fish—very gently.”

Another puts it more succinctly: “Family are like fudge— mostly sweet with a few nuts.”

In this smorgasbord of family stories, essays, and poems, you can nibble on a nugget, munch on a morsel, or gobble down a whole meal.


Celia H. Miles and Nancy Dillingham have edited three previous anthologies of regional women writers: Christmas Presences from 45 WNC Women Writers, Clothes Lines from 75 WNC Women Writers and Women’s Spaces Women’s Places from 50 WNC Women Writers.

If you're interested in buying "It's All Relative," or any of the earlier anthologies, click here.  

Aunt Peep and Uncle Leo

Here's my short story that was included in the latest anthology edited by Celia Miles and Nan Dillingham, IT'S ALL RELATIVE, Tales from the Tree from 50 Western North Carolina Women Writers.

Enjoy!

Aunt Peep and Uncle Leo

When I was a little girl there was nothing I loved better than going to the beach to visit my Aunt Peep and Uncle Leo.  They were a hoot!

I would always go down and stay about a month.  The visits were usually supposed to be two week visits, but somehow lasted longer.  Aunt Peep would beg almost as loudly to my mom and dad as I would.

Peep and Leo owned a little restaurant right on The Boardwalk.  It was a treat for me to be able to run in and out of that restaurant like a little wild child, coke in one hand, hotdog in the other.

I would roam Ocean City with summer friends, with a freedom today’s children don’t know, nor would they understand.

I was sent out the door after breakfast and the only rule was that I be back at the restaurant for supper.  At that time it would be decided if Aunt Peep was going home, or if she’d stay at the restaurant.  If she was free to go, I’d go with her.  I just never could get enough time with my Aunt Peep.

The last summer I went down to stay with them, things were different.  Aunt Peep wasn’t going to the restaurant as much.  And my Uncle Leo didn’t seem to come home as much as he used to.  

And when he did, there were arguments.  Loud, mean arguments.  And when I would hide in my room, I was scared that some of the noises I could hear might be hitting.

Doors would slam.

Peep would cry.

I was afraid.

When my two week visit was over, I went home.

I didn’t beg to stay.  Aunt Peep cried, but said it was best if I went on home.

It was not long after that that I came home from playing with friends down the street to find my mother sitting in the kitchen crying.

Aunt Peep was dead.

Nobody would tell me what had happened.  An accident.  That’s what I was told.

I asked my mom if the bruises I had seen on Aunt Peep’s arms had caused her to die, but I was told to  hush.

When I heard my mom and dad talking about going to the funeral and that they planned to leave me home because I was too young, I pitched what could only be called a hissy fit.

The fit didn’t win – it never did with my parents.  But the fact that my heart was broken did.

We went to the funeral home for the viewing as soon as we got to Ocean City.  I had heard my parents talking in the car on the way.  They were wondering if the casket would be open or closed.

Seeing as how this was my first funeral and my first viewing, I was of two different minds about this casket being open thing.

I didn’t want to see a dead person, especially not one I loved so much.

But, at the same time, I wanted to say goodbye and wasn’t sure how to do that if I couldn’t see her face.

And, there was that horrible childhood morbid curiosity.

The casket was closed, and it turned out that my stomach quit hurting when I saw that.  I guess my stomach knew better than I did that I didn’t really want to see Aunt Peep dead.

I waited until there wasn’t anyone standing near the casket when I walked over and whispered my goodbye to my aunt, along with an “I love you.” 

And I just stood there, by myself, remembering how she would take me to the beach on her days off and race me into the waves.  And how we’d share fried chicken on our beach towels.  And talk about books.

I learned my love of books from Peep.  She took me to the Ocean City library each summer to renew my library card and I would spend some time visiting with the librarians that I hadn’t seen since the summer before.

They all had recommendations – lots of recommendations, and I was never without books to read while I was there.

While standing next to the casket, I thought I heard a voice.  Very soft.

I froze.

And I heard it again.

“Katy?  Katy, are you still there, honey?”

I turned around so my back was to the rest of the room and looked at the casket.

“Aunt Peep?”

“Yes, honey, it’s me.”

“Aunt Peep, aren’t you dead?”

“Oh, yes, child.  I’m dead.”

“Are you sure?”

I recognized Aunt Peep’s soft laugh and that’s when I started crying.  How could I go the rest of my life without hearing that laugh?  Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to after all.  I mean, here she was laughing . . .

“Katy, don’t cry.  Please, don’t cry.  I can’t stand it.”

I sniffled loudly.  “Aunt Peep.  Want me to go get somebody?  My mom, or Uncle Leo?”

“NO!”

She spoke so loudly, I jumped.  Then peeked over my shoulder to see if anyone else heard.

“No, child.  I don’t need anybody.  But I wanted to tell you something, okay?”

I nodded my head.

“After the funeral tomorrow, I want you to do me a favor.”

I nodded again.

“I want you to say hello to Mrs. Mitchell.”

“Aunt Peep, I don’t like Mrs. Mitchell.”

“I know you don’t, Katy.  Me neither.  But just do me this favor and I’ll be able to rest easy.  Okay, honey?”

“Okay.”

“When you say hello, it would be best if there were a lot of people around, especially your Mom and Dad.”

I nodded.

“And look and see if Mrs. Mitchell is wearing a bracelet.  A gold bracelet with cameos.  Can you do that?”

“That sounds like your bracelet, Aunt Peep.  You wear that bracelet every day.  Even swimming!  I remember.”

“It is my bracelet, Katy.  You be sure and ask Hortense Mitchell what she’s doing wearing my bracelet.  The bracelet that belonged to my mother, and to her mother.  The bracelet that I wore every day – even swimming.  You ask her, Katy.  And make sure there’s a gracious plenty of folks around to hear her answer.  Especially your good for nothing Uncle Leo.”

Revisiting the Home of My Heart

Below is one of the very early, original versions of a piece I wrote a few years ago.


There were many. A better version - much better - (edited by the incomparable Celia Miles and Nan Dillingham) was published in the regional anthology WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES. It's a wonderful collection from a group of extraordinary women. I'm proud to be included.

(isn't the cover wonderful?! It was done by Karen Hollingsworth. You can see more of her work at her webpage)





I republish this piece here from time to time, often when I feel a little homesick. And tonight I'm feeling homesick. So, it's time.


An old friend from home, Patti Lucas Hopkins, has become an accomplished artist. Her work features local scenes from the Eastern Shore, a place she loves. Her love of place shines through, and it touches my heart.

You can see some of it here - http://pattilucashopkins.com/about-artist.html

When I learned about a show Patti's having at The Trumpeter Swan Gallery in Easton, MD, I mentioned it to a new friend, David Magayna, who also lives on the Eastern Shore.

He went to Easton this evening to the opening and met Patti.

There's something pretty special about when your old friends and your new friends meet.


Oh, my. How I would have loved to have been able to be standing in this picture with the two of them.




And I wonder if I'll ever stop being homesick for the Eastern Shore?






Here's a piece of my soul, along with my heart - enjoy.


HOME OF MY HEART

As much as I dearly love these mountains and our life here, my heart often gets a longing for my childhood home.  I grew up in a small town on the water and it’s essential to my very soul to get back to it when I can.  Back to where I learned how to ride a bike.  Learned how to drive a car.  Kissed my first boyfriend.  And even learned what it meant to have my heart broken by a best girlfriend.  Back home to stand on a riverbank and stare out into the expanse of forever where the sky and sea become one, in a small town named Cambridge, on the eastern shore of Maryland.  A land of charming, gracious living.

I feel its pull, and know its tug at my roots; calling me home.  I feel that need to cross bridges over huge expanses of water.  To watch white sails skimming elegantly across sun speckled azure seas like ballerinas on-stage.  When I mention this urgent need for water to Donald he points out that we have a creek, and we have a pond - a pond chock full of rainbow trout, by golly.  True enough.  And quite lovely.  But.  Not big enough for need of a bridge, and certainly not big enough that I'll ever see a sailboat out there.   I need to smell marshy smells.  Need to eat crabs that have recently been blissfully swimming along minding their own business.   I need to spend a little time with friends who have known me since we were kids.  People I can just be myself with; letting down all walls and defenses. So off I scoot to where I’m safe in the knowledge that lifelong friends will open their arms and their hearts yet again and give me back my sense of home.  Where I can feel salty air cling to my skin.

I get to cross my bridges over huge sweeps of water, and, just as lovely – smaller ones.  The Chesapeake Bay Bridge makes my heart swell.  The Choptank River Bridge into Cambridge makes me cry buckets. 

Once I’ve crossed that bridge, there’s an almost indefinable pervasive sense of wholeness that wraps me in a hug.  A sense of peace not easily explained, but effortlessly understood by anyone who has experienced the joy of returning “home.”

From the time I was 3 months old until I was 17 we lived in a grand, if somewhat bedraggled, old apartment in The Arcade. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and dining room had immense bay windows.  Those two rooms opened into one another through an archway. The kitchen was huge with a separate pantry and our stove was an old timey thing on high legs.

This kitchen was “the” place to be.  Many an hour was spent sitting at the kitchen table looking out the windows.  One window overlooked a big grassy lawn, which sadly, after a few years, became a parking lot.  Sad for me as a kid ‘cause there went my back yard.  Fun for me as I got older, however, and enjoyed observing some of the goings-on that took place when folks didn’t realize there were eyes above them.  Oh my – the tales this girl could have told! 

From the other kitchen window we would watch the rear door of Woolworth’s and see who was coming and going.  Thus began my love of people watching.

This was not Eloise at the Plaza. This was small town living. We were not wealthy people; not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no private entrance into our apartment. There was a downstairs lobby, and in the lobby was the entrance to the Arcade Movie Theater. If we had been out and arrived home before the movie started, it meant socializing, mixing and mingling with the folks buying tickets to see a movie. Since everyone knew everyone, it sometimes took awhile to get through all the "Hi, How are you’s?" to get up those stairs. 

None of us had a key to the apartment, which meant it was never locked.  Which also meant we never knew who might be there waiting for us.  Rest assured, there was always someone. It might be one of my aunts, uncles or cousins - there was a gracious plenty of them. Or it might be one of dad's cronies, or one of mother's girlfriends, or friends from school. Amazingly enough, as odd as it might now sound to some, it was never cause for concern back then. That apartment was, as my mom often said, "Grand Central Station."   And the kitchen was the hub where everyone gathered.  Even if we weren’t there.

That wonderful old kitchen was where we had most of our meals.  The dining room was for “special occasions.”   We had, of course, that ubiquitous chrome and leatherette table and chairs; a set I’d surely love to have today.

This was where we sat for conversation and gossip over a cup of coffee.  Hot chocolate for the kids.

And it’s where I sat and watched my mom and dad cut a rug.

There was a radio that sat right inside the kitchen door.  I have the most delightful memories of my dad scootin’ through that door, turning up the radio and leading my mom into a vigorous jitterbug all over that room.  Oh my.  Could they dance!

I remember a lot of laughter around that table, one day in particular . . .

(Laws, I hope my dad forgives me for telling this one!)

When I was growing up there were a couple of "stag" bars in Cambridge. No women. I don't know if they specifically ever said "No Women," or if women just wouldn't be caught dead in them. There was one not far from our apartment called the DD Bar. It was owned by a friend of Dad's, and it was a wonderful little place. I adored it.  The DD Bar was one of those grown-up "No Kids Allowed" places I would sneak into under the guise of “needing to see my dad.”  Then acting all stunned and bewildered about why I had to leave when my mom showed up at the door to retrieve me.  It was a long, narrow, and dark.  With a charm that only bars from that era can possess, without a smidgen of artifice. There were maybe 4 booths in the front, along with a long mahogany bar with a brass foot rail. There were also pinball tables, a shuffleboard table and a dart board.  Nary a fern to be seen; plastic or otherwise.

If Daddy needed to work for a couple hours on Saturday afternoons, he thought it was a great way to make some extra money.  Where else could he earn a few extra dollars while hanging out with his buddies laughing and watching a ball game on TV?

We had a local radio station and on Saturdays the DJ, Ed Brigham, would make a phone call to give away a free prize to someone if they could answer the question of the day. 

On this particular Saturday, Mother and I were home, in the kitchen, and the radio was on, of course. We heard Mr. Brigham announce that the question of the day phone call was about to be made.  We crossed our fingers hoping it would be our phone to ring. Well, it didn't, but we did hear a very familiar voice over the radio say "DD Bar, Al speaking." 

How fun!  My dad!!!! 

Mr. Brigham said "Hey Al, this is Ed Brigham, how ya' doin'?" After a few minutes of small talk exchanging some "how's the family" kinda stuff, Mr. Brigham told Dad he would win two free tickets to the Arcade Movie Theater if he could answer the question of the day. 

You could hear all the local Cambridge bar flies talking and hollering and laughing in the background, along with the TV blaring and pinball machines ping-pinging.  Dad told everyone to quiet down 'cause Ed had a question. 

The question was "How long is a decade?" 

Well, Mother and I laughed and she said she guessed she and Dad would be going downstairs to see a free movie soon. 

Then we heard dad over the radio yelling to the guys in the bar "Ed wants to know how long is a duck egg?" 

WHAAAT?!? 

Mother and I just about fell in the floor screaming we were laughing so hard.

A DUCK EGG?! 

You could hear all these men saying stuff like, "a Duck Egg? Hell, I don't know, Jim Bob - what do you think?" Answers like "2 inches, 3 inches - oh hell no, an inch and a half," and things like "Who even cares??"  “Is that a real question??” were all loud and clear over the radio. This went on for awhile and finally dad stopped laughing long enough to say "Well, Ed, we think maybe an inch and a half." 

Ed Brigham was hysterical and said "Al. Hazel is going to kill you. NOT a Duck Egg! A DECADE!!!!!!!!" 

Dead silence on Dad's end. Then he started laughing really hard and had to tell the guys he'd made a mistake.  When he told them what the question really was we could hear them hootin’, hollerin’, shoutin’ and a brayin’ – mass hysteria.

For years, when we went out to eat or went shopping downtown, someone would holler "Hey Al! How long's a Duck Egg?!" 

We all share a common bond of memories of “home.”  Those special moments which make our homes unique and special. 

I have a beezillion of them. 

There was a little mini-community besides the movie theater in the Arcade lobby.  There was a jewelry store, a beauty shop, an insurance company, and the gas company. I was in and out of those places like I owned them. I don't know why those people put up with me. If some poor woman was having her hair washed, I'd just march right over while she had her head in the sink and strike up a conversation. 

The three of us were also piling into the car for a weekend away every so often; usually to the beach and boardwalk in Ocean City.  One particular weekend while we were off doing who knows what, one of my uncles was going to paint our dining room.  Mom & Dad bought the paint and said it should be enough to cover the walls well enough if he was careful. 

Our dining room was a big room with a big bay window.  The sun would shine through that window seems like all the time.  Well, that ol’ sun told some tales on those painters. 

When we got home on Sunday evening, everyone was really pleased about how terrific the room looked with its new paint.  Mother was pleased as punch. 

The next day was a whole different story, let me tell you.  Wheweee. 

Seems my uncle, who was quite the artist, invited a friend to help him.  Adult beverages were involved.  Artistic tendencies arose.  From the muses came pictures of Mickey Mouse and all his pals on our dining room walls.  The painters, at some point, realized this was not what my folks had in mind when they asked to have the walls painted, so they painted over the Disney guys.  But, not well enough.  With the sun streaming into the windows, those images showed right through the paint. 

Its made for hilarious stories since, but things were a little tense around the apartment for awhile.  They did put up another coat of paint and it did help, but even years later, if you knew where to look, you could find a shadow of Mickey's face.  Or Goofy's.  And, honestly?  It was a fun and lovely thing.  What is lovelier, after all, than a home that possesses a bit of whimsy and can make you smile?  That is, after all, what makes it "home."

Waking up to good news

Don't you love it when you wake up, check your email and find some nice news?

It was fun seeing this review, and fun seeing my name included.

The dark

Let’s talk about witches. If you’re thinking about fairy tale or Satanic characterizations, you’re missing the granny for the grimace.

There’s a long history of strong mountain women being feared as Baba Yagas.

Kaye Barley tells a story, “Aunt Peep and Uncle Leo,” that starts off as a girl’s fond recollection of summertime visits with her aunt and turns into something else after she overhears arguments and then gets news of Aunt Peep’s death.

At the funeral, Aunt Peep has a message for her niece that’s intended to not let the truth about Leo die.

Face it, writers love reading nice things about their work.

Especially when those writers make little or nothing in the way of a paycheck for their work.  Those kind words come to represent a sort of payment - much appreciated payment.

So - this - kind words for a group of some of the most talented women I've come to know and am quite proud to be a part of.  Herded together by the amazingly giving Celia Miles, along with poet extraordinaire Nancy Dillingham.  They've put their own writing aside, again, to edit the fourth anthology featuring Western North Carolina women writers.

Here's what Rob Neufeld has to say about the latest, "It's All Relative."

http://www.citizen-times.com/story/life/2015/11/01/neufeld-books-family-life-viewed-wnc-authors/75003400/

WOMEN’S SPACES WOMEN’S PLACES - A Give-Away

And, the winner is . . . 

I used a random number generator to choose a name, and as coincidence would have it, the winner is Jill who lives right up the road.  I'm tickled pink that she won, but feel kinda odd about it too - so if y'all will bear with me, I'll have another give-away in a few months.  I hope you'll come back and leave your name in the hat again for a copy of WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES.  I'll give a shout when I'm ready to do that.  In the meantime, I thank you all for your interest, it means a lot.  Hugs!!!

Kaye

 


I had a give-away when one of my essays was accepted for publication in CLOTHES LINES from 75 western North Carolina women writers a couple years ago, and now I'm tickled pink to have another give-away.

This is for a copy of WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES from 50 western North Carolina women writers.  I'm every bit as proud of this anthology as I am the first one, and am over the moon about having had another essay included with this group of talented women.

 

We can thank Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham for both anthologies.  They are tireless advocates for women writers.  Both these women, talented writers in their own right, take time from their work and busy schedules to help other women get their work out there and promote it.  Including their support of The Candy Maier Scholarship Fund, which is a “go to” site if you are a woman who wants to take a class, workshop, conference having to do with writing and need some financial assistance. Founded to honor writer/friend Candy Maier, The Candy Fund assists with up to half the cost (to $250) with few restrictions imposed.  

My hat is off to both of them - they own a little piece of my heart and my endless thanks, along with a great deal of admiration and respect.

How gorgeous is this cover, by the way??  It's by Karen Hollingsworth.  You can see more of her work here:  www.karenhollingsworth.com

Both WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES and CLOTHES LINES are available at many North Carolina independent book stores, or you can contact Celia at  celiamiles@fastmail.fm  to receive one directly through the mail.

Here's a few links with a little bit to say about WSWP -

An interview with editor Celia Miles at Blind Pig and The Acorn blog

Netwest Mountain Writers and Poets

The Read on WNC

If you'd like to drop your name in the hat for a chance to win a copy of WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES, please just leave a comment including your email address.  I'll draw a name and mail off a copy to the winner this coming Wednesday, June 20th.

Life is Good

Yesterday was a very good day.  

While we were getting ready to leave for Asheville, Donald hollered up the steps that we had sheep in the yard.  

Pfft.

And we did.

You've seen pictures here of Little Deer - the little guy who comes to call every couple of weeks and allows us to pet him and check out his small velvet nubs which will eventually be a gorgeous rack of antlers. 

So - some days there's a deer in the yard,

along with the parade of roosters and chickens that comes up the bank from a neighbor's house to scratch around our pond practically every day.  (no pictures yet - but coming soon . . . )

Yesterday it was two sheep and a goat. (There's a major discussion taking place in my email box with folks debating whether one of these critters is a sheep or a goat.  A discussion which I'm steering clear of; not being well versed in sheep OR goats until these kids showed up for the first time yesterday.  And back again today.  I'm thinking the animal community has put out the word that the Barley House might be the latest hot spot for wildlife to hang out.  anyhooooo - the critter that doesn't look exactly like the other two easily recognized sheep has a face that is similar, but different.  His/Her (?) fur is totally different and while their bodies are similar, they too are actually pretty different.  But their legs look the same.  I wish I could just ask him/her what he/she is, but, well, I can't.  So we bask in our ignorance.)

Harley, of course, thought this was all about him - to help hone his herding skills, perhaps.

Although, truth be told, he does a pretty good job of keeping those skills completely up to date by using Donald and I as his herding subjects.  He doesn't nip at our heels like some herders do, but he's not above using his nose in an aggressive manner and giving us a few good pokes and shoves to get us where he thinks we should be.

Once Harley had convinced the critters that we had places to go, they sauntered off and we went our merry way to Asheville to the Meet and Greet for the women who contributed to the new regional anthology edited by Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham - WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES: from 50 WNC Women Writers.

Anyone wishing to purchase a copy of WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES or CLOTHES LINES, should drop Celia an email.  She is the keeper of the copies and will get one in the mail to you.  Her address is:  celiamiles@fastmail.fm 


They will be available in some local North Carolina independent bookstores, but not at amazon.

I've been smitten with the cover art since Celia sent me an email with a photo of it.  Isn't it just the most inviting, peaceful spot ever??  THE perfect cover for this particular book.

The artist is Karen Hollingsworth.  This is an oil on canvas painting entitled "Connected."   From WSWP, "Karen Hollingsworth is known for her unique light, airy windowscape paintings.  What attracts many viewers is the mysticism evoked by the movement of the air through the curtains taking you into the mountains or ocean scenes beyond.  She says, "For me, a painting is successful if I wish I were there."  Her paintings are in several galleries including Atlanta and Asheville."  You can see some more of her work here - http://web.mac.com/hollingsworthjames/karenart/kIndex.html.  She's also at Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000509040972

And here's a little more about Celia and Nancy. editors extraordinaire.  Also from WSWP.

"Celia is the author if five novels (Plus one in progress) and two short story collections, co-author of a technical writing textbook and c0-editor of three anthologies, is retired from Asheville-Cuncombe Technical Community College and lives in Asheville. "

"Nancy's poetry, short stories, and commentaries have appeared in various literary journals, newspapers, and magazines including Ashevile Poetry Review, Great Smokies Review, Raleigh News & Observer, Mountain Xpress, WNC Woman, and Fresh.  Her latest book is Home, a collection of poems from March Street Press."

After a lovely event hosted by Celia and Nancy, we had a leisurely drive home, stopping and snapping a few pictures along the way - including Grandfather's profile, 

and had an early dinner at one of our favorite restaurants - The Italian Restaurant in Pineola.  And,  ta da - there was enough left over that it will easily take care of dinner for today also and I won't have to cook.  

Life is good.

Good News - Yay!

In September 2009 I was doing happy dances all over Meanderings and Muses because an essay I had written was accepted for publication in the wonderful anthology "Clothes Lines."

Well - Guess What - I'm doing more happy dances - Yay!!!!!

Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham are doing another regional anthology.  Sadly, they say this is their last one.  (Personally - I hope that's not so).

These women, wonderful writers in addition to being excellent editors, have done some pretty amazing things - not least of which includes their efforts in nurturing women writers.  I, for one, seriously doubt that my work would have seen the light of day without Nan and Celia.  They hold a special place in my heart.  More than they know.

But I'm going to save the mushy stuff for another day, another blog.

You'll hear more about Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham.  I'm hoping to convince them to allow me to profile them here.

Today I'm doing happy dances again because I'm one of the lucky women who will be contributing to this newest anthology.

WOMEN'S SPACES/WOMEN'S PLACES

It's to be a collection of stories, reflections, memoirs, poetry –all having to do with women's spaces and places.

This is from the submission invitation:

"Where do you, have you, wish you could… find yourself most comfortable, at home,  free to be, free to think, reflect, escape, rejoice, renew? An apple tree when you were seven? Your therapist’s couch? Your dreams of dancing on a faraway beach? Actually dancing on a faraway beach? Your kitchen with your arms in dishwater?


You can deal with inner space, outer space, filled space, empty space; with the psychology of space; with places you’ve been that have special significance for you--whether spiritual, sensual, artistic or intellectual."

I am over the moon happy about this news, and quite honored.  So - join me in a happy dance, won't you?!