News from Story Circle Network

Story Circle Network is an organization whose mission is to promote women writers.  It's a multi-faceted organization that has helped and encouraged me along my writing journey.  Here's a link to "Members in Print"--where women who've been published are recognized:
http://www.storycircle.org/MembersInPrint.php

RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME

RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME

North Texas summers are always hot, humid, and quite dry, but in the summer of 1959 North Texas felt like a furnace. The scorching sunlight and intense heat ignited one of the worst droughts on record.  I was only about 9 years old but I remember that the sidewalks sizzled and roasted my bare feet, and the July heat permeated the already parched ground in front of our home, leaving huge cracks and crevices.  The grassy lawns yellow and burnt smelled like bales of hay that had been sitting in the summer fields too long. 

We couldn’t afford air conditioning so Mother always opened the windows wide—even  though the air outside was motionless.  As the day progressed the heat singed the air in our tiny two-bedroom home, making it feel stagnant, oppressive, and suffocating.  I often spent my summer days quietly sitting by the open windows reading a book, and—despite the motionless air—smelling the sweet smell of mother’s honeysuckle vines.

Occasionally, I escaped outdoors riding my Schwinn bike up and down the neighborhood streets pedaling at high speed until I could feel bursts of warm air blowing across my face and shoulders.  When I stopped, I could both feel and see the heat waves rising up around me—baking my bones and roasting the rubber tires. 

 

I thought about riding my bike to the city pool and jumping into the cool, clear water.  I stopped, for I knew better than to go without asking my mother.  So I pedaled home as fast as I could. 

“It’s soooo hot, Mama!  May I go swimming today?”

“No, sweetie, you may not.  It’s too expensive to go swimming.”

“But I want to go swimming - all the other kids are going swimming,”

“No!” Mother peeked over the newspaper she was reading.  “Don’t ask me again!”

I pouted and marched past her.  “Well, fine! I’m running away from home—to Granny’s house.  I bet she’ll take me swimming.”

With that proclamation, I entered my bedroom and slammed the door—huge mistake.  My mother had zero tolerance for back talking and door slamming.  “Granny lived 20 miles away and too far away to pedal on my bike.  What was I thinking?” I thought to myself.

Surprisingly, mother didn’t immediately appear at my door.  She eventually opened my bedroom door brandishing a doll suitcase and a brown paper bag stating, “If you’re going to run away, you’ll need a suitcase.  Let me help you pack a few things.”

With that mother opened my dresser drawers; grabbed a change of clothes and my pajamas; she then gently closed the lid and said, “I’ve called your grandmother, and she’s expecting you.  Oh, here’s a sack lunch with a peanut butter sandwich and bag of potato chips.  Now, give me your wrist.”

Next, mother tied one of her delicate handkerchiefs around my wrist and told me, “Be careful with this.  Inside it is 25 cents so you can stop along the way and get something to drink.”

I stood in front of her speechless and dumbfounded.  She took my hand and escorted me out the front door placing my lunch sack and tiny suitcase in the rear saddlebags of my Schwinn bike.  “Now call me when you get to Granny’s house.”  She hugged me.  “I love you.”

She calmly turned around, went inside, closing the screen door behind her.  Even though my ego was bruised, I had to save face.  I felt that I now had no other option but to hop aboard my bike.  So, I rode my bike to a nearby park, camped under a huge shade tree, cried, and listened to the locusts’ soothing summertime lullaby.  When I awoke, I smelt the handkerchief; it smelled like my mother.  I knew I had to go home. 

As I pedaled home I wondered what I should say and do if mother would, in fact, let me back home.  I parked my bike removing the suitcase and sack lunch then gingerly opened the screen door.  As I entered the living room, mother momentarily looked up from her crossword puzzle and said, “Glad you’re home.”

I returned to my bedroom, unpacked my suitcase, and then ventured back to the living room where I sat next to mother on the couch.  She hugged me in silence, smiled, and kissed me on the forehead.  Thankfully, my mother was not prone to indignation, guilt, or “I told you so.” 

Instead, she lovingly taught me a life lesson without ever saying a word—running away is never a solution for disappointment, frustration, and anger.   

 

An Adventure....

THE GREATEST ADVENTURE OF ALL   by Sara Etgen-Baker

 

            “Bow to your corner; bow to your partner; join hands and circle left.”  Petticoats swished and boots shuffled across the wooden gym floor.  I watched the dancers from the sidelines, feeling once again like an awkward seventh grader at my first junior high dance.   “Allemande left……weave the ring.”  But once the music stopped, dancers dispersed as single men went to one side of the gym and single women to the other. 

       I stood with the other women clutching my empty dance card in my left hand.  As the music for the final dance began, a red-headed, bearded man wearing cowboy boots strolled toward me.  He extended his right hand then reached for mine.  “Would you care to dance the last tip?”  Without saying a word, I placed my hand in his and followed him onto the dance floor. 

After the last tip, he escorted me to the front door.  “May I walk you to your car?” 

I nodded.  “Yes.  That would be lovely.”    

While the flame red harvest moon sank upward, we sat on the hood of my car and talked.  His aura grabbed me like the moon pulling the tide, and the hours passed imperceptibly.  As the harvest moon sank downward, the morning dew formed on my car’s windows. 

“Oh!”  He jumped off the hood.  “We need to get to work!”  He extended his hand and eased me down to the ground.  “May I see you again?”  We exchanged phone numbers and went our separate ways. 

As with most new friendships, getting to know one another was joyous, magical, and transformational.  He gathered the pieces I was and somehow gave them back to me all in order.  Even after marriage, we remained friends and developed an extraordinarily strong, almost holy connection that became life-giving for us both.                                    

We’ve entrusted one another with our imperfections.  We’ve suffered through painful but rewarding trials and tribulations and learned to forgive.  Forgiveness became our friendship’s biggest gift.  Now our friendship serves as a profound reminder that friendship is the greatest adventure of all—full of risks but also full of endless possibilities. 

 

Guideposts Article

The holidays are just around the corner and with them comes bittersweet memories of Christmases past.  I was so fortunate in 2013 to have Guideposts Magazine select one of my Christmas memoirs for publication in its Joys of Christmas 2013.  I feel so blessed.  Here's a picture of the cover of the issue as well as the first page (44) of the story:

I Am A Writer

THE PUPPETEER AND HIS MARIONETTES

 

            When I was a child my grandmother took my brother and me to watch local children's puppet shows. Although my brother loved these productions, I absolutely dreaded them. 
            For some reason, the stuffy, small theater filled with squirming kids did not appeal to me. I also found the marionettes disturbing, for their faces were distorted like caricatures; their body movements seemed contrived; and their souls were spiritless—trapped in a thin and meaningless storyline.  Early on I realized, oddly enough, all the characters' voices sounded the same.  I sat amongst the other children wondering to myself:  Am I the only kid here who knows the puppeteer is the voice for all the characters?
            Then after each production the puppeteer dramatically unveiled himself to us children and rather ceremoniously demonstrated how he manipulated each character with strings and wires.  I always left disappointed, for I felt as if the entire presentation was more about the puppeteer and less about the characters and their stories. I wanted more stories!
            For some reason when I began writing two years ago, I remembered that puppeteer and his marionettes subconsciously becoming afraid of infusing too much of myself into my stories. So, I guarded my writing, fearing my ego would manipulate my characters to the point that both they and the storyline were rendered meaningless.
            Ironically, guarding myself against my ego jeopardized my creativity; I soon felt just like the puppeteer, controlling my characters through simple dialogue, weak scenes, and less than compelling storylines.  More often than not my characters—like the marionettes—were rigid and distorted, lacking souls and motivation, hopelessly trapped on a small stage, static and weakened by their creator and manipulator.
            Over time I realized that I actually needed to put more of myself into my writing. Of course, my work didn't need to be a literal version of my life. I soon found ways to metaphorically transform my life into another time, another place, and into an array of characters. Subtly infusing my personality and life's experiences into my characters gave each of them a soul and unique voice. Meaningful storylines soon followed.
            So, I learned a truly valuable writing lesson: The very thing I am afraid to write about (whatever it is) oftentimes is exactly what I must write about—it's what makes my writing come alive.