Finally...There is a Cover

I've been waiting a long time for this.  There is a beautiful cover to share of my third book.  Daniel's Esperanza is literary fiction written for the adult reader...I specify this because my two previous books were middle grade/young adult works.  I'm told that the book will be available very soon (within days) for purchase in paperback and for Kindle, and I'll provide an excerpt shortly.  Sharing the cover for now.

Old Wauhatchie

For this blog entry, I'd like to share a flash fiction piece I wrote recently.  "Old Wauhatchie" might resonate a little with my friends in Tennessee and Georgia...Chief Wauhatchie of the Cherokee Nation and the Trail of Tears, a time when the tribe was forced to give up its land due to the Indian Removal Act of the 1830s. There is a road in existence today called Old Wauhatchie, just around Lookout Mountain in Chattanooga.  This short story is part history, part dream sequence, part paranormal and I took some liberties, but it is fiction.  The history itself was not changed, just mentioned.

As always, copyright applies, ©Veronica Randolph Batterson, and thanks so much for taking the time to read my blog.

Old Wauhatchie

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

  

The mist rose from the river, its ghostlike veil spreading slowly and sensually through the brush of trees and along the path where she waited.  It separated like arms, wrapping around her ankles, swirling, and gently enfolding her in an embrace she couldn’t feel.  She watched as it continued and spread, caressing the earth like a familiar lover, confident and comforting.

Twilight was quickly turning to dusk; the colors from the departing sun created shadows that danced and angled before her eyes.  The swelling mist played tricks, bringing the dark forms to life.  The silhouette of a man jumped from a rock, only to be replaced by the contours of a bear running into the woods.  An arrow shot from a bow near a tree, its momentum turning it into a bird with wings that spread and hovered over her until it glided out of sight. 

She knew he was nearby and felt his presence throughout her body.  Her senses were sharp; the slight snap of a twig brought her head up.  She waited.  Then the scent reached her nostrils, a woodsy blend of cedar and oakmoss, hints of evergreen and honeysuckle with a puff of tobacco.  It lingered under her nose, intoxicating and light, keeping her still in anticipation. 

Then drumbeats, faint and steady, filled the air and echoed through the trees, hinting at greatness to come.  Or danger, but she wasn’t afraid.   She knew she was being summoned, as it was her time, and he would be there waiting.

“Listen to the river,” the wind breathed.

Through the mist, lifelike forms appeared.  They walked toward her, hundreds it seemed, women carrying babies on their backs and children dragging behind.  Their faces etched with sorrow, in their arms they carried all they owned.  Men intermingled, solemn and stoic, walking tall yet anger simmering at being driven from the only land they’d ever known.  Their land. 

And she saw Wauhatchie, Chief of the Cherokees, chief of these displaced souls, limping to follow.  Stooped and aging, his face belied his youthful greatness; he was simply a man forced from his home now, like all his people.

This tribe of spirits walked past her and through her.  She felt the rush of air, a whisper of breath touching her skin as they passed.  Sadness and despair washed over her and the sense of loss was so great that she wanted to cry out at the injustice.  This trail of tears left her cold and empty.

The drumbeats stopped and there was quietness all around her.  She heard a pebble skim across the water.  She turned toward the sound and saw someone emerge from the thicket of trees.  He was there.

He was as she remembered, as he was when he left.  His dark hair, touched with gray, looked damp from the mist.  The smiling green eyes still smiled.  For the first time, she wondered how she appeared to him.  It didn’t matter, she thought, as he took her hand in his own.

She met him years before, on Old Wauhatchie, where winter brought an icy chill and summer bore scorching heat and singing cicadas.   She lost him there, too, when the river rose and took him away.  Then he joined the others, specters with tales and stories of their lives, sharing with those who could feel them.  And he waited for her.

The drumbeats sounded again as darkness enveloped them.  Her vision adjusted, allowing her to see everything as she would in daylight.  The river reclaimed the mist, the wispiness retreating to the murky waters in wait for the next arrival.  He looked at her and kissed her hand.  They had a story to tell.

“Listen to the river.” 

 ©Veronica Randolph Batterson

 

July Orders on Fine Art America Come With a $100 Gift Certificate for Wine

I'm doing a quick blog post right now to let you know about Fine Art America's July promotion.  Any and all orders (it doesn't matter the amount you spend) will come with a $100 gift certificate for wine from NakedWines.com.  Of course, I'm including the link to my FAA page just in case anyone wishes to include some of my work in their orders and there are a lot of options from which to choose: canvas, acrylic, metal, poster/art (all framed or unframed and in any size) prints and greeting cards. Also, cell phone covers are available, too, in the artists' images.  There is an abundance of talent on this site, all with beautiful work to sell. I highly recommend any and all to check it out.

The link to my personal site is http://veronica-batterson.artistwebsites.com. I've included a few photos you'll see, but visit the site for greater resolution of these images and many more. Thanks for reading and for taking a look.

Man's Best Friend Could Do Without All the Fireworks

July 3rd marks the sixth birthday for my best canine friend.  If you believe Merriam-Webster, she has finally hit middle age.  Maybe that's why the fear of sudden and loud noises seems greater this year than in the past.  In addition to crawling under any piece of furniture that will support her golden retriever's frame (something she has always done), a new sign of stress for her seems to be excessive panting and drooling during these times.  Other noises will cause panic, too, such as thunder and loud trucks, and when we had our roof replaced, she spent the entire time in her crate (a place she feels safe). It's the July 4th celebrations, however, that do the most damage.

Our sweet dog has always been afraid of the fireworks associated with the July 4th holiday...going into sheer panic and running aimlessly and wildly throughout the house.  We call it bouncing off the walls and sometimes it literally takes a wall to stop her.  She's terrified and I'm terrified of her ever getting out of the house during these times.  Too often our pets get lost this way because they take off when hearing these sounds and there are no walls to stop them. 

I'm certainly no Fourth of July Scrooge, as I love to see fireworks to celebrate the holiday.  It is symbolic, after all.  However, I could do without some of the pre and post celebratory bangs.  When you hear loud booms from dusk throughout the night, everyday, for about two weeks prior to the big event, well, that's a bit much.  Add a week or two of winding down and our pets could use a prescription for Xanax.  We might need it, too, simply for dealing with them.  Of course, the normal concerns arise, such as fireworks legality (depending on where you live), fire, safety (kids can get hurt, after all). Yet, the celebrations continue for weeks.  Maybe I'm just getting old.  According to Merriam-Webster, I've been there awhile.

So, have a safe July 4th holiday, everyone.  Take care of your pets, keep them as calm as possible.  I have a feeling my girl will be secured in her crate for the evening.  If she could understand me, I'd tell her we were all just celebrating her birthday.  If she could talk, she'd just say a new can of tennis balls would suffice.

And A Hummingbird Hovered...Starved Rock State Park

Decompress.  Restore.  Relax.  Recover.  Anyone who has been part of the wedding planning process for a daughter understands how fully these words are felt once the special day is over.   When months, oftentimes years, are spent preparing for the nuptials, it’s sometimes difficult to remember how living (or even breathing), sans wedding discussions, ever was. 

This past weekend, my younger daughter walked down the aisle.  It was beautiful and ran smoothly, but it took a lot of work to make it so.  Now I’m feeling that sense of “what to do with myself” quandary, which followed the foggy numbness post-ceremony.  A glass of wine or two helped clear that haze and made relaxing a little easier at the reception, but Monday rolled around and I felt lost.

I can’t say enough positive things about the location of the wedding, which helped us keep cool heads and our sanity.  Starved Rock State Park in Oglesby, Illinois made the bride and groom’s weekend one of memories they’ll always cherish.  Situated on over 2600 acres, the park is known for its many canyons and hiking trails, along with fishing and boating opportunities and overnight accommodations in cabins and the lodge.  It’s also a premiere wedding venue, hosting most ceremonies outdoors with the capability of moving everything inside due to inclement weather conditions.  And we just missed the rain.

With a 5 p.m. outdoor ceremony, small droplets started dotting the sidewalk at approximately 4:20 (just as I exited the lodge).  As the weather had been perfect for the past two days until that point, my first thought was, “Are you kidding me?”  Braced and ready for what was to come, I went back to my hotel room and grabbed two shawls I’d thought to bring (to throw over someone if necessary in an attempt to salvage dresses and hair) and my husband brought our only umbrella from the car.  Groomsmen were buying umbrellas from the gift shop.  Ultimately, none of it was necessary.

Throughout the ceremony and photographs afterward, the rain stayed at bay, and everyone enjoyed the lovely setting Starved Rock has to offer.  But one of the most special moments of that time, in my opinion, wasn’t planned.  As the bride and groom said their vows, a hummingbird appeared above the wedding party, hovering for several seconds, dipping, darting and hovering a little more.  Then it was gone as suddenly as it appeared.  I’m one to believe things like this have some sort of meaning and given the Native American history of the park, I readily accept the symbolism of a hummingbird’s appearance at such a time.

In general Native Americans viewed hummingbirds positively, but it depended on the tribe as to the legends and symbols they represented.  Hummingbirds are often associated with beauty, harmony and integrity, but they’re also seen as healers or spirits helping those in need…or the spirit of a departed loved one (something even more special given the timing).  Some think seeing a hummingbird is a sign of good luck, but it has special meaning for different people and cultures…symbols of joy, life and a savor of life, tirelessness, eternity and everlasting life.   For myself, I’ll take any of these.  It was a very special moment I’ll always remember.

As for the rest of the evening…reception, dinner and dancing occurred without a hitch indoors, which is a good thing as the skies opened and it poured the rest of the night.  The timing was perfect and everyone had a wonderful time.  I couldn’t be more pleased with Starved Rock State Park…thank you, Margie and Tiffany.

Now, let the recovery continue (perhaps a vacation will help, then seeing book three reach publication).  Onward.

More Prints on Fine Art America...While We Wait On The Book

Those who have been reading this blog know I've met a few road blocks along the path to publishing my latest book.  I should add that detours, speed bumps, brick walls and more red lights than green would give it more emphasis.  For the most part, the manuscript was complete over a year and a half ago.  Eighteen whole months.  Ten of those months, one literary agent considered it.  Yes, in the digital age (it was sent to her electronically) it took her ten months to decide to reject it.  This was something I knew would happen, so really the only thing that upset me was the length of time I wasted waiting on her response.  At that point, I decided on publishing it myself (as I'd done with my previous two books), but to go a different route.   A cover artist was already working on a design for me, with a tentative launch date of June 1, when another literary agent asked to read a full.  So once again a delay.  After all of this, it looks as if I'll actually be doing this solo again, with a tentative publication date of July 1.  No promises, however...life has been busy, particularly with the wedding plans of my youngest daughter.  Fingers are crossed.  

While we wait on the book, I'd like to share some more photos I've added to my Fine Art America site.  To see the prints in greater detail/resolution, please visit my page by clicking the Fine Art America link.  As always, thanks for the visit, and if something catches your fancy and you make a purchase, my sincerest gratitude to you.

Simply An Incubator

My two daughters are young women now and when I look at where they are in their lives, I wonder how I was any part of their talents and accomplishments.  Of course, I’ve owned many titles over their lifetimes: nurturer, caregiver, homework enforcer, cab driver, lunch maker, bad guy who made rules and curfews and the volunteer-for-any-job-in-elementary-school-just-because role.  But I look for things they might have inherited from me, something genetic that could have contributed to what they do now.  And I struggle to find it.

My younger child has been offered a special opportunity to work toward her Master’s degree this fall.   Tuition free.  Her undergrad scholarships covered all of her tuition during those years.  She was a member of seven honor societies, graduated summa cum laude and her resumé reads as if she’s been in the work force for decades.  How is she my child? 

She is a visual artist, as well.  Her artistic abilities amaze me and while I love all of her work, my favorites will always be her cartoons.  She can create on paper, bringing to life all of these wonderful characters.  It’s certainly not anything I can do.

My older daughter is a musician.  She began playing the violin in first grade and took lessons until she graduated from high school.   The violin was chosen for two reasons:  1) we didn’t own a piano at the time and, 2) we had a neighbor who rented string instruments to schools for their orchestra programs.  We rented a tiny violin for our daughter and she took off, never looking back. 

Lessons via The Suzuki Method started and lasted for a few years.  By the way, if you don’t think it’s possible for young children to perform music by the classical composers such as Bach, Handel and Mozart, then find a Suzuki School recital and go to it.  You’ll be amazed.

Traditional lessons followed, as did concerts, youth orchestras, ensemble groups and fiddle instruction.  One of my fondest memories is when she played the role of “The Fiddler” in Fiddler on the Roof during her high school years.  She didn’t play from the orchestra pit; she was up on the rooftop on stage, dressed like a man (including beard).  And I loved it.  Today, she continues to play gigs around the Chicago area and I continue to marvel at her musical abilities, as she didn’t inherit them from me.

So I wonder.  I was a good student, but I had to study, and I was far from brilliant.  I started out as an art major in college and abandoned that career path due to an unfortunate experience.  Looking back, it was probably a sound decision, as I see the talent my youngest possesses…talent that eluded me.  As for the musical inability...I took classical guitar lessons for a while, regretting much later that I didn’t continue.  I felt it important that my daughter play an instrument, thus the music lessons.  But I have no talent for it. 

Perhaps I’ve been pursuing dreams through my kids…some people do it.  Although, my daughters have never been forced to do these things.  They continued along their paths because they chose to do so and they felt good about what they were doing.  And I continue along my own, wondering how in the world either one of them are a part of me.  The incubator idea is strong during these times.