Tales From the South Videos

A writer's dream--an opportunity to share a story with a live audience!  I was both excited and nervous when I was asked to perform at the Starving Artist Cafe in Little Rock, Arkansas.  Here are some links to YouTube videos of those performances. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Am6xaTQuu20 (He'd Walk a Mile for a Camel)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDEsDT-0KHg&feature=youtu.be (Ticket to Ride)

Easter Greetings!  I just learned that my manuscript, "Ticket to Ride," appears in the spring 2013 issue of Halcyon Magazine.  The photos and artwork are simply breathtaking.  I think you'll enjoy taking a look at this issue.  When you click on the link below, turn the digital pages to page 18.  That's where my story appears.  Enjoy!
http://halcyonmagazine.blogspot.ca/p/2013.html

Remembering My Mother

In 1944 my mother met my father at the airfield in Liberal, Kansas, where she was living and working.  Despite the war, my mother was hopeful about her future.  In 1983 my mother returned to Liberal, Kansas.  Although she didn't take any photos of her trip, she shared some of her thoughts and feelings with me.  I share that recollection with you now.  Enjoy! 

I’LL BE SEEING YOU

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” announced the captain, “in approximately five minutes, we will begin our descent into Liberal Mid America Regional Airport where the weather is slightly windy and 78̊.  At this time make sure your trays are clear and in their upright position.  Please, fasten your seat belts and remain in your seats until we are safely at the arrival gate.  Thank you for flying with us today.”

Just as I fastened my seat belt, the plane tilted slightly to the left and began a slow, steady turn.  I looked out my window; the ground below looked like square plots on a huge map of some kind.  Gradually, the Kansas prairie came into view with its wheat fields waving as if to welcome me home.  As the plane neared the ground, small cars heading down long highways of black ribbon appeared, as well as homes of different sizes and shapes.   

Then a sudden bump—I jumped slightly as the landing gear was released.  Trees and rooftops whizzed by as the aircraft made its final turn toward the waiting runway and ended with a mild rumbling as the tires kissed the tarmac.   Once the plane taxied to a halt, I was the only passenger who walked through the fuselage door onto the jetway bridge disembarking into the airport.    

Once inside the airport, I found it virtually empty—still with anticipation with a tinge of sadness in the air.  As I made my way toward baggage claim, the floor beneath my feet creaked with the voices of the pilots and soldiers who once worked at this airfield during World War II.  I glanced out the huge plate-glass windows and spotted the deserted AAF classroom buildings, abandoned hanger, and empty storage facilities.  I fought back the tears wondering “Why did I expect this place to remain the same when nothing else does?” 

At baggage claim the skycap handed me my luggage.  “If you hurry, you can catch the cabbie before he leaves for town.”

So, I scurried through the lobby toward the automatic sliding doors, stepped outside, and stood at the crosswalk waiting until the cab appeared.  “Let me help you with your luggage, ma’am.”   I watched as the young cabbie easily lifted my two large suitcases into the trunk of his vehicle.  He opened my door and said, “My name’s Tom.  Where ya headed today?”

            “I’m heading into town….734 North Webster Avenue.  Do you know where that is?” 

            “Certainly do, ma’am.”  Tell me...,” he paused, “are you from around here or just visitin’?”

            “Both.  I grew up in Liberal.  During the war I worked as a clerk at the Liberal Army Airfield.  Then when my parents moved to Missouri in 1943, I moved into my Uncle Claude’s house on North Webster Avenue.  He recently passed away so I’m here for his funeral.”

I looked out the window as the cabbie turned onto 8^th Street heading west past the fairgrounds and Bluebonnet Park.  The cabbie turned right onto North Webster and said, “Here we are ma’am…734 North Webster Avenue.  I’ll pull into the driveway.” 

Before getting out of the cab, I stared at the vacant, old house not knowing what to expect.   Although it looked familiar, the paint was weathered and peeling off in spots; the slats in the shutters on the upstairs windows were mostly broken out.  A slight breeze made the shutters tap against the house, and the hinges squeaked.  Despite ivy clinging to the outer walls of the house, I could see inside the front door into the house past the banister and stairway that led upstairs.

“From those second story windows, I watched as the airport, hangars, and runways were constructed.  From there I also watched the military parade march through downtown Liberal the day many of the soldiers and pilots arrived at the airfield for their training.”

“A parade during war time must have been moving,” he commented.

“Yes, it was, Tom.  Those parades kept us all—civilians and military—motivated and focused on the war effort.  That parade convinced me that I somehow needed to join in the war effort.”

“So, what did you decide to do?” he asked.

“I took a job working as a clerk at the new airfield.  When not working, I tended to our Victory Garden.”  I pointed to the vine-covered backyard.  “As a matter of fact, my Aunt Jean and I planted it back there.”

“A Victory Garden?” he raised an inquisitive eyebrow.  “What was that?”

“Because sacrifice was part of the war effort, the government rationed foods like sugar, butter, milk, cheese, eggs, coffee, meat, and canned goods.  So—like many other women—we planted a garden so we’d have our own fruits and vegetables.  At some point we canned our fruits and vegetables leaving commercial canned goods for the troops.  Later, I built nest boxes for eggs and raised chickens just so we’d have eggs for eating and cooking.”

“Must’ve been hard to make those sacrifices,” he said.

“Like most Americans I didn’t feel like I was making a sacrifice at all.  I felt patriotic doing my part—however small—to insure America’s victory.”  I opened the car door.  “Tom, would you mind waiting for me while I go inside?”

“Sure thing, ma’am.  I’ll wait as long as you need me to.  Take your time.”

I stepped onto the gravel driveway and gingerly climbed the rickety steps onto the porch.  Using my antique skeleton key, I turned the rusty lock and opened the front door fully expecting Uncle Claude and Aunt Jean to greet me.  As I entered the house, the sun—now low in the sky—illuminated the downstairs rooms.   

Although the old house was decaying, the floors inside were not rotten and looked sturdy enough to bear my weight.  As I walked through the entryway, I found the grandfather clock had long since stopped.  I closed my eyes and imaged myself in another time altogether when blackout curtains hung over the windows and I sat in the living room listening to radio shows like “Amos ‘n Andy,” Bing Crosby,” and “The Green Hornet.”  I even thought I heard the old phonograph playing songs from big band leaders like Duke Ellington and Glenn Miller. 

I opened my eyes and discovered the chandelier that once shone upon the piano was now covered in cobwebs and dust.  I headed toward the kitchen; looked back; and caught a glimpse of Aunt Jean—her hands dancing across the keyboard—playing her favorite wartime song, “I’ll Be Seeing You.”  The buffet and china cabinet were just as she’d left them; but mold from damp nights had seeped into the walls making gray streaks across my aunt’s favorite wall paper.  In the kitchen I found an empty teakettle sitting on the stove patiently waiting for Aunt Jean’s return. 

Soon, ribbons of moonlight drifted through the kitchen window and shimmered across the kitchen table where I often drank coffee and talked with Uncle Claude about the war.  At this table, my future husband—a mechanic on the flight line—asked Uncle Claude for my hand in marriage.  Despite the war, the old house was alive and always full of people—a sort of wartime oasis for soldiers, pilots, and locals that my uncle invited to his home. 

Now, though, the old house—hallow and lifeless—echoed with memories.  Although the night was new, darkness soon forced me to say goodbye to the old house.  So I walked through the moonlight down the driveway turning back as though summoned and drinking in the sights—relishing the flood of memories.  I stared up at the moon.  Then something caught my eye.  On the second floor, the curtain moved; and I saw the woman I used to be—an innocent, patriotic wartime bride full of hope and anticipation about her future.

Just as we pulled out of the driveway, I thought heard my aunt playing her piano and singing her favorite song to me: 

“I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces all day through.  In that small café, the park across the way, the children’s carousel, the chestnut tree, the wishing well. 

I’ll be seeing you in every lovely, summer’s day; and everything that’s bright and gay; I’ll always think of you that way.  I’ll find you in the morning sun; and when the night is new, I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.” 

**Written in honor of my mother, Winifred Christine Stainbrook-Etgen as I imagined her returning to Liberal, Kansas, where her married life with my father began. 

 

Writing Throughout the Seasons

Here's one of my short manuscripts that recently appeared at Tiny Lights.  I thought you might appreciate the perspective, Sara

First, Last, and Always

by Sara Etgen-Baker

When my husband introduced me to running, I loved it. As I ran alongside him, my body felt weightless as I soared through our neighborhood—my feet pounding, legs and arms pumping, lungs filling like bellows, my body having fun.

In short, I felt remarkable, magical, and unstoppable—-until I decided to train for my first 5K race and learned that I needed to run properly: Knees up!...Elbows in!...Eyes forward…Keep your head up!...Lift your feet!...Remember pace! After a few weeks' training, I was amazed that I could walk across the street, much less run! I entered my first race only to have a woman a couple of years older than me pass me in the first half mile.
So, I joined a running club and emulated other runners' styles and techniques-—giving up that part of me that loved running. After a few more disappointing finishes, my enthusiasm died; the joy was gone. I got so caught up in running competitively that I lost sight of why I was running until I realized that--given my talent-—I must run my race my way.

When I began writing a couple of years ago, I loved it. As I sat at my laptop, my fingers felt weightless as they danced across the keyboard-—my mind running free, stories magically appearing on the screen, and me always having fun.

In short, I felt creative, alive, and whole-—until I decided to enter contests and learned I needed to write more professionally: Use spell check!...Write proper sentences!...Use proper grammar! Follow submission guides!...Develop a web page!...Remember to blog! After a few months of writing, I was amazed I could think about a story, much less write one! I entered a few contests receiving more than my fair share of rejection letters.

So, I joined a writers' group and emulated other writers' styles and techniques-—giving up that part of me that loved writing. After a few more rejection letters, my enthusiasm waned; the joy was gone. I got so caught up in writing competitively that I lost sight of why I was writing until I realized that-—given my talent-—I must write my story my way.

So, I learned this important truth: Cut loose…run…have fun…and find my story—-first, last, and always.

Sara Baker is a retired educator turned freelance writer. In addition to writing memoirs and personal narratives for fun, she also runs 10 miles a day—-just for fun!

Embracing Solitude

SEASON TO SEASON

By Sara Etgen-Baker

When the alarm sounded, I wanted to continue sleeping.  Instead, I slid out of the warm sheets away from the comfort of my husband’s body; peeked through the venetian blinds; and noticed graceful flakes of pearly-white lace had dusted the tree-lined trails adjacent to my home.  Even though the mercury hovered just below freezing, I knew today was the perfect day for a solitary winter run.  So, I quietly donned my winter running clothes and headed downstairs. 

Daylight had not yet turned the slumberous, dark blue clouds to their morning gray, and—for a moment—I hesitated at my front door not wanting to disturb winter’s peaceful silence.  When I stepped outside, my warm breath mingled with the crisp, cold air as it stung my cheeks.  As I began to run, my stiff legs begged me to turnaround; I ignored their cries knowing they would soon stop complaining.  Only my footfalls broke the silence as the gentle snow crunched under my feet.  

As I ran through the woods that morning, nary an animal crossed my path; their tracks in the snow indicated that they had been here before me though.  The nippy air frosted my breath, and soon my breathing mixed with my footfalls creating a rhythm.  I ran effortlessly past fallen trees along the creek side with no thought of time or distance.  I wasn’t aware of speed either—just movement. 

I ran past an icy pond cloaked by barren, frost-covered trees trembling like skeletons in the brisk wind.  Snow began falling around me making me feel as if I was running in a snow globe.  Soon, winter’s tranquility and purity enveloped me; time and distance became meaningless, and I imagined that the woods looked as it once did 100 years ago.  For a brief moment I thought I saw Henry David Thoreau in the distance standing outside his cabin near

Walden Pond. Yet, off in the distance there was absolutely nothing except for what was right in front of me—miles of solitude. 

For years I’ve run alone along these trails in the woods—a quiet, almost sacred place every bit as wondrous as Walden Pond.  Generally, the only sounds I regularly hear on these solitary runs are birds chirping, small animals collecting nuts, and my feet as they gently land on leaves, pine straws, or snow.  I occasionally hear the pitter-patter of rain drops as they hit leaves and fall onto the underbrush and forest floor.  Sometimes a light rain cools my perspiring body and soothes my spirit.  Frequently, I immerse myself in my thoughts and dreams and feel invigorated.  Other times, the solitude nourishes the seeds of stories germinating in my head.    

Here in the woods, though, solitude—as silent and powerful as light itself—forces introspection.  So, I linger in the solitude emptying and quieting my mind; then, I let go of the world and my ego—journeying inwards.  Here, I sometimes hear my inner voice whispering to me; I occasionally meet myself face-to-face and find the being within—the true self—that has been waiting patiently to be released.  Solitude has flung open the door of wisdom—amplifying self-awareness as a metamorphosis of my spirit occurs. 

At some point I continue running—grateful for the solitude and the balance I feel.  I turn around, follow my footprints, and return in the direction from whence I came.  Reluctantly, I approach the end of my solitary run—not wanting it to be over.  From season to season I’ve run alone along these quiet trails in the nearby woods, but never once have I felt lonely.  Strange.  Why is that? 

 

True, some would equate this solitude with loneliness.  On the surface solitude and loneliness are similar; yet just below the surface, they are quite different.  Solitude is refreshing while loneliness is punitive and harsh.  Solitude is rich and full while loneliness is empty and hollow.  Solitude is the glory of being alone in awareness while loneliness is the pain of being alone in isolation.  Solitude is desirable while loneliness is not.  Solitude restores body, mind, and spirit while loneliness depletes them. 

Have I ever felt lonely while running?  No.  How could I feel lonely when my inner spirit is there to comfort me?  Have I ever felt alone while running?  No, I’ve never felt alone—just unaware.  Have I ever been alone while running?  Yes, I’ve been alone while running, and being alone is exactly what I needed to be.

 

Seasons of My Life

Three years ago I retired from the teaching profession and embarked on a journey--a journey toward writerhood.  At first I was uncomfortable calling myself a writer.  Now some three years later, I happily embrace being a writer.  Although I knew very little about being a published writer, I learned to explore and risk and step out on faith.   My husband provided me with much needed love and support and here I am a published writer working on my first novel.   

Now I must embark on another aspect of my writing journey and become tech saavy, hence the reason for this blog.  I hope to use it to share my thoughts and stories with you.  Thanks for sharing the journey with me.  I appreciate your comments and look forward to hearing from you!  Sara Etgen-Baker