The Dragonfly Brooch

It was a boring Thursday night that I found myself alone with the TV. I turned on the streaming internet feature to our Roku device and selected the Facebook app. Why did I even bother since it didn’t give me full access to Facebook features like a computer did? I clicked on the photo albums of my brother in Michigan. Wow! He had many pictures of autumn woods with trees in gold and orange; it looked like he was hiking. Then I looked once again at his Christmas photos of my sister Camile. Double wow! Boy, has she gained weight! She was dressed in a burgundy colored velvet pants suit with pearls. Who dresses like that on Christmas day? Again I got that dreadful feeling of being switched at birth. She prized those pearls since they came from our grandmother who had  worn them in her casket at the funeral home. Just thinking about that gave me the willies!

Funerals bring families together whether the relationships are close or whether everyone is happy to live a million miles apart. Everyone gives the affectionate hugs, smiles, and cheerful greetings, but sometimes it’s just a let-me-go-through-this-and-get-back-home motion. At the viewing, there sat my rich uncle who made his money in the office supply business, sold it to a Japanese company, and now lives in South Florida near a golf course. He never communicates with any family, but there he was for his mother, a visit too late. And there was Camile, cozying up to him on the front bench. Birds of a feather, I thought.

After my grandmother’s funeral, Camile, my brother Stan and I dropped off our brother Louis at the airport. We headed straight for a restaurant with a bar in the Nashville area. Since I wanted to fit in, I let my brother order a drink for me. He introduced me to the Cosmopolitan. It tasted great. I sipped on this fruity concoction while listening to my siblings on either side of me. The conversation soon took a turn for the worse as I felt like I had paid admission to listen to the audio version of Fifty Shades of Grey. I felt as though I were on a sinking ship. I sipped on my Cosmo in silence while my ears were assaulted with lewd remarks. When Stan saw that I drained my glass, he promptly ordered me another one which I gladly accepted. After time had lapsed, we figured it was time to go back to the house that my mother and grandmother shared. I got down from the bar stool and found that I had difficulty walking due to the 2 drinks my brother paid for.

“Just hang on to the back of my jacket,” he told me. I did, thank God.

Once we were on the road to Monterey, the alcohol took over. I belched loudly and laughed hysterically. My siblings looked at one another and laughed at me. We came up with a motto, “What happens in Nashville stays in Nashville”.

The next morning, the atmosphere was heavy with grief again. Camile and my mother asked me to go through our grandmother’s things to see if there was something to take home with me to remember her by.

Grandmother and I were about the same size. She had visited me twice in the Florida Panhandle. I loaned her my peach colored tank and shorts set to go to the beach in Destin. At 82 years old she still had some auburn color in her hair. I took pictures of her standing in the surf of the emerald colored Gulf of Mexico. One photo had her foot in it with brightly colored toe nails. I will always remember that she called me her “little country singer”. She taught me how to play the guitar. My first song was “The Crawdad Song” (You Get a Line and I’ll Get a Pole). She was the one who held our family together when there was an emergency. I even remember when she picked me up from school when I was very young. She had worn dark sunglasses which changed her appearance, like a spy on a mission. Since I didn’t recognize her, I didn’t get in the car. She had to coax me. I chuckled about that through the years.

The day after the funeral, Camile approached me with the pearls that my grandmother wore in her casket at the viewing. I shook my head and refused them. Camile must have thought, more for me.

 I stood there at my grandmother’s closet and remember smelling her clothes. She had good taste in fashion: not too fancy and not too dressed down. Some of her tastes leaned toward tropical since she wintered in Florida for many years. There was a skirt set in a deep blue tropical leaf print with a dragonfly brooch on it. I grabbed it from the closet. The brooch was a pave style with clear crystals. A large crystal was the “head” while the curved body was in a polished silver tone. It probably came from Avon, but I thought I struck gold.

Years down the road I discovered that my grandmother’s dragonfly brooch was captured in a photo when she posed with my mother in the living room after a day at church. If Camile could see this, she would be so envious! Now it is the secret that I keep: a piece of jewelry of my grandma’s that is captured in time, jewelry that captures the essence of what she loved and who she was. My sister will most likely never know since we have drifted further apart through the years. The brooch rests in my jewelry box while my memories of my grandmother at the beach are visited in my mind.

 

How to Write a Memoir: 6 Creative Ways to Tell a Powerful Story

by M. Shannon Hernandez, contributor to The Write Life

Whether you curl up with memoirs on a frequent basis or pick one up every now and again, you know powerful memoirs have the capacity to take you, as a reader, for an exhilarating ride.
I’m a connoisseur of memoirs. In the past seven years, I might have read three books that weren’t part of the memoir genre. Not only do I devour memoirs, I also have written my own, and I coach memoir writers on turning their memories into manuscripts.

By dissecting memoirs from both the reader’s and writer’s perspectives, I’ve identified common elements that powerful, compelling memoirs all share. If you’re planning to write a memoir, here’s how to make sure your story takes your readers on a journey they won’t forget.

1. Narrow your focus

Your memoir should be written as if the entire book is a snapshot of one theme of your life. Or consider it a pie, where your life represents the whole pie, and you are writing a book about a teeny-tiny sliver.

Your memoir is not an autobiography. The difference is that an autobiography spans your entire life, and a memoir focuses on one particular moment or series of moments around a theme. You want your readers to walk away knowing you, and that one experience, on a much deeper level.

Perhaps you are familiar with Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. This memoir focuses on Frank’s life as a first-generation immigrant child in Brooklyn. Angela is his mother, and much of the storyline focuses on her and how Frank saw her, as well as the role she played in trying to hold the entire family together.

2. Include more than just your story

I know I just instructed you to narrow down your focus, but we need to think bigger in our writing pursuits.

For example, if Hillary Clinton wrote a memoir about raising a child in the White House, she would be pulling in tidbits about how she handled the media, who she let visit her daughter during sleepovers, and how she navigated the politics of parenting during her time in the White House.

Likewise, if Madonna was writing a memoir about reinventing herself after 20 years away from the public spotlight, she most likely would include what it felt like to return to the music scene and how she continued to travel and perform while raising her children.

How does this apply to you? Imagine you are writing a memoir about your three-week trek through the Himalayan Mountains. While the focus is on your trip, as well as what you learned about yourself along the way, it would be wise to include other details as well.

You could describe the geography and history of the area, share interesting snippets about the people and donkeys you interacted with, and discuss your exploration of life-and-death questions as you progressed along your arduous journey.

Your readers want to know about you, but it’s the backstory and vivid details that make for a powerful memoir.

3. Tell the truth

One of the best ways to write a powerful memoir is to be honest and genuine. This is often tricky, because we don’t want to hurt or upset the people (our family and friends!) we’ve written into our books. But it’s important that you tell the truth — even if it makes your journey as an author more difficult.

When I wrote my memoir, Breaking the Silence: My Final Forty Days as a Public School Teacher, I knew I had a major dilemma: If I opted to tell the whole truth, I would pretty much ensure I would never get a job with New York City Public Schools again.

But I also knew teachers, parents and administrators needed to hear why great teachers are leaving education in droves and why the current educational system is not doing what’s right for our nation’s kids. I wrote my book with brutal honesty, and it has paid off with my readers — and is bringing national attention to what is happening behind closed school doors.

One more note on honesty: Memoirs explore the concept of truth as seen through your eyes. Don’t write in a snarky manner or with a bitter tone. The motivation for writing a memoir shouldn’t be to exact revenge or whine or seek forgiveness; it should simply be to share your experience.

Don’t exaggerate or bend the truth in your memoir. Your story, the unique one that you hold and cherish, is enough. There is no need to fabricate or embellish.

4. Put your readers in your shoes

Powerful writers show, not tell. And for a memoir writer, this is essential to your success, because you must invite your reader into your perspective so she can draw her own conclusions.

The best way to do this is to unfold the story before your reader’s eyes by using vivid language that helps him visualize each scene.

Perhaps you want to explain that your aunt was a “raging alcoholic.” If you say this directly, your description will likely come across as judgmental and critical. Instead, paint a picture for your audience so they come to this conclusion on their own. You might write something like this:

“Vodka bottles littered her bedroom, and I had learned, the hard way, not to knock on her door until well after noon. Most days she didn’t emerge into our living quarters until closer to sunset, and I would read her facial expression to gauge whether or not I should inquire about money — just so I could eat one meal before bedtime.”

5. Employ elements of fiction to bring your story to life

I like to think of the people in memoirs as characters. A great memoir pulls you into their lives: what they struggle with, what they are successful at and what they wonder about.

Many of the best memoir writers focus on a few key characteristics of their characters, allowing the reader to get to know each one in depth. Your readers must be able to love your characters or hate them, and you can’t do that by providing too much detail.

Introduce intriguing setting details and develop a captivating plot from your story. Show your readers the locations you describe and evoke emotions within them. They need to experience your story, almost as if is was their own.

6. Create an emotional journey
Don’t aim to knock your readers’ socks off. Knock off their pants, shirt, shoes and underwear too! Leave your readers with their mouths open in awe, or laughing hysterically, or crying tears of sympathy and sadness — or all three.
Take them on an emotional journey which will provoke them to read the next chapter, wonder about you well after they finish the last page, and tell their friends and colleagues about your book. The best way to evoke these feelings in your readers is to connect your emotions, as the protagonist, with pivotal events happening throughout your narrative arc.
Most of us are familiar with the narrative arc. In school, our teachers used to draw a “mountain” and once we reached the precipice, we were to fill in the climatic point of the book or story. Your memoir is no different: You need to create enough tension to shape your overall story, as well as each individual chapter, with that narrative arc.
That moment when you realized your husband had an affair? Don’t just say you were sad, angry or devastated. Instead, you might say something like:
“I learned of my husband’s affair when the February bank statements arrived and I realized that in one month’s time, he had purchased a ring and two massages at a high-end spa.

Those gifts weren’t mine. He was using our money to woo another lady and build a new life. I curled up in a ball and wept for three hours — I had been demoted to the other woman.”

Will you write a memoir?

When you follow these guidelines while writing your memoir, you will captivate your audience and leave them begging for more. But more importantly, you will share your own authentic story with the world.

Have you written or are you planning to write a memoir?

A Gift Multiplied - WINNER of the Writer 750 May Challenge

It was around the time that I turned twelve years old when my father was killed during an uprising in Jerusalem. We were visiting family during Passover when zealots started rioting against the Romans who have occupied my land and claimed it as part of their empire.

“THE WORLD IS ROME!” shouted a proud Roman centurion, “You will pay your taxes as declared by the divine Caesar.”

 This proclamation only angered the mob. Tempers flared as the Jews retorted with hateful shouting. They hurled stones at the soldiers. The massive throng pressed my father against the small cavalry. There was no escape as my father was trampled beneath the hooves of a soldier’s horse. He lived only a few hours until he went to his eternal home. I was robbed of my only parent, not even given the chance to speak to him before his passing. Forsaken. Broken. Where was my God when I needed him?

Fortunately, my father had a brother who was kind enough to take me in. Uncle Abijah lived in the city of Tabgha. He taught me that I should forgive the soldiers responsible for my father’s death since God forgave me of my trespasses. I escaped my grief by helping my uncle tend to his flock of goats every day. My eyes traveled to the mountains of Gilead that loomed high above the Sea of Galilee off to the distance. It was a balm to my soul.

One day Uncle Abijah sent me to buy food for dinner. He reached in his clay money jar and gave me some coins to make the purchase. I stared at the coins in my hand while I strode through the dusty ally into the noisy marketplace. The stamped image of Caesar reminded me again of those overbearing occupiers in my land. When would God deliver us from these oppressors?

After purchasing five loaves and two fishes, I noticed that people were chattering and getting excited that the Galilean had arrived in the city. I found myself swept along with the crowd, curious to see for myself what this holy Man was all about. I had heard that He gave a blind man back his sight, that he raised a girl from the dead. Too bad he wasn’t around when my father died. Why did it have to be so, that others got their miracles but not me? I felt a pang of sorrow. My feet felt heavy as I tread up the mountain along with the thousands of people who wanted to be ministered to.

Soon the masses of people sat, waiting for the Galilean to speak. I was busy looking around me until I heard the words, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted”. Suddenly it was as if I was the only audience on that mountain. His words became alive within me. “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you that you may be the children of your Father in heaven.” My heart began to break again. This time it was breaking in order to heal. Love and hope swelled within me in waves. Tears coursed down my cheeks. It was at this time that Jesus looked at me. There were thousands of people there, but He saw just me, a small orphaned boy.

Later after the sermon, the people wouldn’t leave. Jesus asked, “Where shall we buy bread for these people to eat?”

His disciples looked dumbfounded – one answering that it would take a whole year’s wages to feed them. I remembered that I had purchased some food before walking up the mountain. I pulled my dinner out of the cloth wrap and looked at it. Could God use my gift?

Andrew, a disciple of Jesus, saw me. He helped me to my feet and proclaimed that he had found some food. “But how can this help feed a crowd of so many?” he asked.

Jesus asked them to bring the loaves and fishes to Him. He lifted His eyes to the heavenly Father and gave thanks. Then he told His disciples to distribute them to all of the people. Miraculously the loaves and the fish multiplied to feed the thousands. I watched as my little dinner was passed out to the throng and was enjoyed by many. When everyone had his fill, baskets were passed around to collect what was left over. There were twelve baskets full!

As the crowd disbursed, I was left there wondering how I was going to carry all of this food back home. James and John came over to me to ask if I needed help. Soon each disciple carried a basket to my Uncle Abijah’s house. I was so glad that it wasn’t left for me to explain this one.

 Want more stories by Glenda Reynolds? Go to Write On (an Amazon writers' platform) and read Short & Twisted Tales. http://amzn.to/2iS2fId

Glenda's 2014 Year in Review

Good things happened in 2014. 

• I made many friends in the writing industry. 
• I am now a published writer of short stories. 
• I also have to accept change and hope that it is change for the better in finding a new employer. 

But through it all, I have been BLESSED. God is good. 

 "May God silence the voices that tell me to settle for something other than God's best".

Honoring Our Vets - a Thanksgiving Short Story

Honoring Our Vets

By Glenda Reynolds

I hear a splash in the water which rouses me from my sleep as I lay sprawled out on the back porch. What a beautiful, tranquil autumn day. The big fish must be feasting on little bait fish. The ripples travel the length of the bayou, splashing against tupelo and cypress trees. At least I wasn’t having bad dreams, fueled by memories of my military service in a foreign hot land. The humans call it Afghanistan. I call it hot-as-hell-with-no-doggy-bone-land.

They say that I am the best breed for military operations that involved parachuting out of military planes, secret operations, and sniffing out IEDs. I’m a Belgian Malinois which some humans mistake me for a regular German shepherd. My fine, wiry coat is a more universal color with black shading to my face; this sets me apart from that breed. We are also lighter and stubbier. I heard that there are some Malinois dogs that guard what the humans call the White House. If it’s true, it’s because crazy humans can sneak in there too easily. They finally got wise to my kind.

My handler and my beloved master is Gene LaBlanc. We served together in Afghanistan. We used to play find-the-tennis-ball games in the early days of my training. Next I found things that were scented with explosive materials. Soon all of those games stopped. I was only finding the scents, and I was good at it. But there was always a slight chance that I could miss one. It was just such a time that I missed one that my master was injured very badly. He lost one of his legs above the knee. A helicopter took him far away to heal. He would later petition the military to adopt me into his home.

After many months of being away from my master, we have been finally reunited. I now live in the Louisiana bayou with Gene and Marie LaBlanc.  Sometimes I fall asleep on the couch with Gene. He suffers terrible nightmares about things that happened over there in that dry desert land. He whimpers and moans. I cuddle close to him, placing my paw on him to wake him up to the land of the living. He is grateful to have me with him as I am to have him.

“What would I do without my Zagnut?” he would ask me.

“Wuff!” is my only reply as I look him in the eyes with my tail wagging. I know just what to say and how to say it.

Gene occasionally helps his LeBlanc brothers trap alligators for a living. It is a family tradition on the bayou and helps put meat on the table too. It is almost as exciting as dodging Taliban bullets. It is a little difficult to manage a boat or haul gators in while wearing a prosthetic leg, but Gene does just fine. I am just bursting with pride. There goes my tail again.

An old-timer has come to our house to talk to Gene. They enjoy smoking on the front porch in the late morning. The sound of creaky rocking chairs accompanies stories of days gone by. The two of them walk over to a covered flatbed hauler. The old man pulls the tarp off to reveal a turquoise and white Indian motorcycle.

“I want to give you this motorcycle in honor of your years of service to our country. And I would love it if you would ride it in the Thanksgiving Day parade this Thursday with the other vets,” said the old man in a feeble voice, obviously choked up.

My master is overcome with emotion as he reaches out to touch the chrome handlebars, the shiny gas tank, and the fringed buckskin seat covers. His eyes are leaking which causes me some concern.

“I have never owned anything so fine in my life,” he said as he wipes tears away. “Yes, sir, you can bet I will be at the parade,” replies Gene. “You can also bet that Zagnut will be there for his years of service too.” I stare intently at both men as if I understand that they are talking about me. I stand with my front legs on the flatbed as I sniff the air near the motorcycle. Gene watches me sit back down, satisfied that the motorcycle is safe. “No bombs here,” he says with a smile.

The two men shake hands and then give each other a quick heartfelt hug. They unload the motorcycle and park it in the over-sized shed. The old-timer gives one more look before he heads home.

As promised, Gene and I are seated on the sparkling Indian motorcycle as we await our turn to ride in the parade. Many vets young and old welcome us into their traditional Thanksgiving procession. We finally get underway. Many are delighted at seeing me, proudly seated behind my master. The children point and wave and call out to me. There is so much to see as we ride down the long street. It makes me dizzier than a mutt chasing his own tail.

The parade may be over, but the day just got better. Gene and I ride into the local park where there are many Thanksgiving banquet tables set up. My master and his mate, Marie, sit at the head of a table laden with a big roasted bird and casseroles. I caught the scent of fruit pies, fresh from the oven. “What about you?” you ask. I am given my own little doggy cornucopia with all kinds of doggy treats, chewy bones, bacon Beggin’ Strips, and plush toys. You name it, it was in there. I remember all those days eating survival food in the desert with not a doggy bone in sight. It is like I won the lottery. This is the best day of my life.  And to think, I helped fight for the freedom of these people here today. Hoo-rah!

Women of the World, You Have Worth...

To the woman of the world, a message just for you today.

Enjoy and receive it in your heart.

Encouragement in Difficult Times

I came from a family that is typical of many American families in that most of my childhood was spent growing up with only one parent. Peoples’ view of marriage and divorce changed in the late sixties and early seventies due to the “sexual revolution”. It was easier to get a divorce.  I can remember when my mother would date. I told her that a multi-strand necklace was good for her to wear on her date since it covered up her low-cut blouse. She laughed at me. If I could go back in time, I would’ve stopped her from marrying my father when she was at the tender age of sixteen. What were they all thinking? One thing was for sure: I was determined not to make the same mistakes as she did.

How does a child find a good influence for life when they are a product of a broken home? Fortunately, I made the choice to spend my high school years on a Christian campus. Though I look back at how very strict the institution was, I needed that structure for my life much like a soldier needs boot camp. It was there that I saw for myself how a family was supposed to love and communicate with each other. At the same time I grieved in my heart when I walked away from mail call without letters, and I grieved over the state of my broken family. But making the choice to live on the campuses of my Christian high school and Bible college were the best choices that I made early in life.

Marrying my husband was my next best choice. He came from a very small but close knit family. These people were the next ones that taught me the real meaning of a family.

It is now many years later. We live in world where information and communication flash across the globe at the speed of light. Many people wish to change our way of life on many levels and it isn’t for our good. We have many adversaries both in our homeland and abroad. Yet in these dark times, I keep myself focused on positive things:

• I stopped listening to secular radio. Instead, I stay tuned to my favorite Christian radio station at my work place and in my vehicle that broadcasts music with positive messages by popular Christian artists. The DJs and listeners who call in say words of encouragement at all times of the day and evening. I found myself compelled to support this station financially since they are only listener supported. I am helping to give other people hope through my support.
• I stream sermons about the Grace Revolution that is changing lives. No condemnation, only resting in the finished work of my Lord and Savior.
• I also stopped listening to much of the news on television. Yet, I keep myself informed about headline news.
• And lastly, I get involved with my favorite writing group on the side. I’ve come to know some of my fellow writers, and I’m blessed to know them. On a side note, when I started writing my first novel, I explored my own feelings regarding one of my siblings and my father. I used these feelings to write about both the antagonist and one of the protagonists in my story. I found this gave me an emotional release from feelings that had been pent up for years.

I began by talking about family. I will end by saying that family isn’t only defined by flesh and blood. Family is made up of people of like minds and one heart.