Comes the Dawn

I'd like to start this blog post by mentioning that I'll be participating in the 6th annual Bookstock-Memphis Area Author's Festival on Saturday, April 23 at Benjamin Hooks Central Library in Memphis, Tennessee. More details will be shared once I receive them, and I'm honored to be included in this event that's sponsored by the Memphis Public Library.

Now to explain the title of this post. Anyone (particularly those of a certain older age) who moves from one location to another knows the work and stress it takes to get to that new stage in your life. In our attempt to downsize, we go through boxes that have been stored in the basement or on closet shelves; we sort through things we'd like to keep, items we can donate to charity and some things that simply need to be tossed onto the garbage heap. I did this recently (moving from Chicago to Memphis due to my husband's new job) and found a scrapbook that I put together as a teenager. On one of the pages was a poem that I'd cut and pasted from some publication. I think it resonates with most women, regardless of age, because the words can apply to various stages of life. 

Titled Comes the Dawn, the poem's author was listed as Unknown on my scrapbook page. After searching online, I found that the work has been attributed to three authors: Veronica A. Shoffstall (with a different title, After a While), Judith Evans, and Jorge Luis Borges (Argentina, 1899-1986). I have no idea who really wrote it, but it seems the popular consensus is Shoffstall, who gave a copyright date of 1971 to the poem. 

I'd like to share the words here. To the author of this lovely piece: thank you for the simple, beautiful words to Comes the Dawn (After a While).

                                             

After a while you learn the subtle difference

Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning

And company doesn’t mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts

And presents aren’t promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats

With your head up and your eyes open

With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,

And you learn to build all your roads on today,

Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,

And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn

That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,

Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure...

That you really are strong,

And you really do have worth.

And you learn and learn...

                                             With every goodbye you learn.

A Little Promoting...Again

It's time to take up some blogging space to promote. It has never been easy for me to dance that self-promoting waltz, but it's necessary to get the word out about the work: published books, updates, new photographs, sales and such.

I wish I could comfortably emulate some folks on Facebook who have no qualms about pitching themselves, but I can't and don't. Nearly every day, I receive a request from someone asking if I'd like his/her personal page. If I've forgotten I was even Facebook friends with you, I'll pass. I can't even bring myself to create personal pages for myself. Facebook has automatically generated four pages for me: an author page, and one for each of my books: Daniel's Esperanza, Funny Pages and Billy's First Dance.  I haven't done a thing with any of them. Imagine if I'd bombard all of my pals on Facebook with requests to like each of them.  You'd hear crickets chirping for miles! If only we could realize by helping someone, we might get a little help in return. So I've embraced a new rule with respect to those personal pages: I'll be happy to like a page, give it a shout-out, etc, if it's reciprocated. Buy one of my books, share it on Facebook and I'll like your page and share. Pretty simple, and if it's viewed as "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours", so be it. But, I digress. So here we go.

Fine Art America has changed its web address regarding personal pages for members. My address is now www.veronica-batterson.pixels.com and I have some new images up since the last time I shared here. Many different types of products are sold in addition to prints and posters: pillows, cell phone covers, t-shirts, duvets, tote bags and shower curtains. Check it out and please let me know if you make a purchase.

Books. All three are still available via several online retail sites, but I guess I would recommend Amazon over any of the other places. Simply put: it's the easiest, best shipping deals and most people already have accounts there. However, if anyone would like a signed book from me, let me know. I have copies, too, that I can sell. Daniel's Esperanza, Billy's First Dance and Funny Pages. Paperback and ebooks are available, and please share with me if you buy one. Feedback is appreciated, too.

Many thanks, as always. I continue to work on the latest, Williamsburg Hill, and will update here periodically with the occasional side-track of short stories, essays and thoughts.

Cowboy Ridge and Honor

The view of the roads, one early Chicago morning, December 2015

It's interesting how music can spur an idea, and I'm not sure if other writers visualize a story before they put words to it, but I do. This short story started forming recently while we drove from Chicago to Memphis. Leaving a snowstorm with white-out conditions behind us, listening to Robert Earl Keen on the iPod (particularly "I'm Comin' Home" and "Gringo Honeymoon"), and driving toward new beginnings, the idea started formulating. While a story doesn't "wrap up" in my head and it only evolves (and changes) as I write, I get a general sense of what I'd like it to say as I think about it. This story really isn't a reflection of the music I listened to that day, but I guess the songs set the tone and direction.

It feels good to get back to work after a long break. Also, I'm looking forward to getting back to writing and finishing my next book, Williamsburg Hill...it was coming along nicely until a little thing called "moving" happened.

January 2016 is an anniversary of sorts for me. Four years ago, I started this blog and thought it wouldn't last. But I'm still around and posting stuff. Thanks for reading my stories and musings. I hope you enjoy Cowboy Ridge and Honor and, as always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

Cowboy Ridge and Honor

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

His horse pawed the earth, scraping away snow and foraging for grass to eat.  Spring thaws were starting and bits of green, suddenly awake after a long winter’s sleep, sprouted through the slush.  Soon the ground would be a muddy mess and he’d be digging muck out of hooves, boots and from more things than he cared to consider.

“Not much to eat here, old boy,” he said, patting the neck of the gelding that had been his companion for over a decade.  The horse looked up at the sound of his voice, its ears swiveling. 

It wasn’t far now. The old schoolhouse was just around the bend; he imagined smoke billowing from its chimney, and the bell ringing through the hollow signaling the start of a school day in what was now an abandoned structure.  He guessed Honor had remembered it that way, too, as it had been the man’s history.

It had taken him nearly a week to complete this final trip with his friend.  “Six days, thirteen hours and roughly twenty minutes,” he muttered, glancing at the pocket watch Honor had given him.  It was almost over.  Soon he would be home in the arms of his wife and sitting by a warm fire. 

He’d been rough around the edges all those years ago when he first met Honor; he had plucked himself straight from the Chicago streets and landed in a hellish Montana winter without knowing a soul or understanding why he’d done it.  Smiling, he recalled his attempts at fitting in.  His new, brand-named outerwear didn’t fool anyone, nor did the shiny, leather cowboy boots that were in dire need of breaking in.  His feet had hurt so badly.  He recalled his first meeting with the man who would become his mentor.

“You ain’t from these parts, are you?” came the raspy drawl.  The man was leaning against the checkout counter of the only grocery store within a fifty-mile radius.

“So it’s that obvious,” he had replied.

“Well, I know most folks from around here, and I don’t know you.  So the odds of you being a stranger are pretty good,” the man smiled, lines deepening around his eyes and the tips of his full mustache lifting with his grin. 

“And I thought the way I was dressed was the giveaway,” he’d said.

“To some it would be.  To me, it looks like you’re trying too hard,” came the reply.

“Trying too hard at what?”

“Only you know that answer.  Maybe to blend in, maybe to get a fresh start at something new.  Nothing’s wrong with either one.”

“Guess I’d like to do both.”

“Well, let me give you a bit of advice.  You really going to eat that?” the man had nodded toward the food he held in his hand.

“Why else would I be buying it?”

“Maybe to kill a stray cat.  Look, old Sally runs a good store here, and she can generally cook a decent meal, but I wouldn’t say sushi is her specialty.  That ain’t exactly something that flies off the shelves.  Some might get a good laugh out of the city slicker who got sick off of old Sally’s concoctions.”

He’d looked down at the wrapped package and thought it appeared less appetizing than before.  A wave of homesickness washed over him at that moment and he wondered what had made him think he could ever make it out west.  Setting the food back on the shelf, he turned to the stranger.

“Thanks,” he’d said.

“My pleasure.  Name’s Honor, by the way,” the man had replied, extending his hand.

He remembered shaking Honor’s hand and thought how that one gesture could sum up a person as a human being.  Honor’s handshake was an indication of just who the man was.  Genuine, strong, dependable and devoted.  He’d known his friend for many years and Honor never swayed from being anything other than decent and good.  The name had defined him.

“How’d you end up with the name Honor anyway?” he recalled asking the man once.

“Left on the doorstep as a babe with the word pinned to my blanket.  I was raised by some good folks who simply used the name out of respect for whoever left me,” Honor had replied.

“You never wanted to find out who that was?  Where you came from?”

“Why?  I am who I am.”

And that was Honor.  From the old buckskin coat with the torn fringe, to the weathered cowboy hat he wore, you knew what you were getting.  And when his old friend, who never asked for any favors, drew his last breath, he knew what was needed.  To honor a request that had come from the heart.

“The woman I loved told me that I was as mule-headed of a man she ever met, but she loved me in spite of it,” Honor revealed once, and had laughed at the memory.

“Didn’t know you were ever married.”

“Didn’t say I was.  She and I never made it legal, but we lived together as man and wife up near a place we called Cowboy Ridge.”

“That far from here?”

“Pretty far.  You can only make it by horse.  Hard as heck building that little cabin, but we did it.  Just the two of us.”

 “Where is she now?”

“She’s buried up there.  Should’ve made it legal.”  Honor had hung his head at the regret.

 His mind came back to the present as he and the horse crossed into the valley.  There stood the remote and dilapidated schoolhouse that Honor had attended, standing stubbornly against time and the elements.  It had survived all who had crossed its threshold and served as one final visual of his friend.  He would probably never pass this way again. 

“Promise me something,” Honor’s voice gasped, as he had struggled to form the words at the end.

“Anything.”

“Spread my ashes at Cowboy Ridge.  I need to rest with her.”

He carried out his friend’s wishes in a manner he thought best.  Two days to make Cowboy Ridge, a couple more tending to the property and cabin, two additional days to get back.  The ashes were scattered without fuss near the gravesite of the woman Honor had loved, as rushing water from a nearby stream provided the only sound.  He was certain Honor would have been pleased.

“Time to go home now,” he said to the horse, as he gently nudged the animal onward.  “Bet there’ll be some nice mash waiting.  Beats mud and weeds, don’t you think?”  The horse nickered in response, nodding its head as if understanding.

 The schoolhouse behind them, he didn’t look back.  He’d done the right thing by Honor, who never regretted anything other than not marrying the woman he had loved.  A sense of urgency filled him, as if time were limited.  Soon his cabin appeared in sight, the warm glow of lights through the windows illuminating the twilight and warming his soul.  His wife was waiting for him.

©Veronica Randolph Batterson

Thank You

"A joy that's shared is a joy made double." - English Proverb

As 2015 comes to a close, I would like to thank all who have purchased and read my books, referred them to others and supported me by reading this blog and following it.  Many thanks also to those who have bought a print of one of my photographs on Fine Art America.  I appreciate it all.  I look forward to continuing this blog in 2016, and finishing my latest book, Williamsburg Hill.

Many wishes for a peaceful holiday to each of you, a happy new year, and I hope that we all somehow learn to share our joys in life.

Merry Christmas.

Your Life is Now

When I was about seventeen years old, I began planning.  It might have started sooner but that’s my earliest recollection of it.  The restless energy of “what’s next and how do I get there?” took hold of me and, for a while, my life became a series of stepping-stones to the next thing.  I didn’t enjoy my senior year of high school, so my focus became college.  In college, my goal was to graduate early.  I accomplished it, even with transferring from one school to another, working, and doing multiple internships.  Looking back, I can say that all it got me was a degree and a shove into the world of working full time. 

Before I knew it, life grabbed me and I watched years pass like days; one job led to the next with moves to new cities, and my kids grew up faster than I liked.  I said goodbye to old friends, hello to new ones and continued to plan for the next stage of my life.  Even now, I still do it.  I’ve written four books, published three and I’m writing the fifth, yet I’m planning the next and the one after it.  I think I need to cram as much into life as I can get.  Perhaps it’s my age and I feel I’m running out of time.  Seeing friends and family members pass away can do this.  Our own mortality looms.

 However, it has also allowed me to reflect on the importance of slowing down, too.  At what point do we realize that life is the journey?  We can plan for the stages of it: graduations, careers, marriage, a family, growth, travel, retirement.  But it’s the jolts, surprises and unexpected knocks that sidetrack you, make you laugh, cause you to cry, make you shake your fist at the world and open your eyes to things you’d never considered before.  It’s the day-to-day living, not the planning; it’s the now, not the future, because there is no guarantee you’ll see it or benefit from all you’ve planned for yourself.   

Your life is now.  I borrowed the title from John Mellencamp’s song, even though the expression is one that’s used often about living life in the moment.  It applies to the journey.  Don’t sprint; take a stroll.  Breathe deeply and smell the roses; appreciate the sound of rain, dance in it.  Relish the taste, laugh, be sentimental, love openly, show kindness, be fearless.  Take the back roads, not the interstates.  Learn, listen and be okay when things don’t go as planned.  Appreciate the small things that come your way along that epic odyssey of life.

 As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I find myself on another emotional roller coaster.  Change is coming, yet I’m going to enjoy the day itself and the meaning behind it, no plans around it other than being with family.  Tomorrow will be dealt with when it gets here.  And if I had done things differently in my life, I would’ve slowed down in college, made deeper friendships, hugged my children until they begged me not to, laughed a little louder and longer, apologized more often and not once would I have sweated over things that didn’t really matter.

Thank you for reading this blog and I hope Thanksgiving finds you happy and healthy; cherish the time with your families and friends, live that moment, the day, to the fullest.  Have a peaceful and fulfilling holiday.

Funny Pages Excerpt

I'm using this space to share an excerpt of my book, Funny Pages, which was published in 2011.  It's still available for sale on Amazon and via several other online sites. I have copies to share, as well, if you'd like to have one signed.  It was written for the middle grade/young adult reader, but I've had adults tell me they liked it, too, particularly the dialogue between the uncles. So that's one section I'm sharing.

Drawing from the archives and posting things via Fine Art America have been my source of blog posts of late because I'm trying to focus on the first draft of my new novel.  It's coming along...still happy with how it's evolving.

As always, thanks for reading my work and the following is copyright protected (©Veronica Randolph Batterson).  Funny Pages is registered with the US Copyright Office.


Funny Pages - Excerpt - ©Veronica Randolph Batterson
 

“Holy smokes,” Uncle Johnny whistled.

I turned to see what he was talking about and a fly could’ve flown in my mouth as it opened wide in surprise and stayed there.  Pops wasn’t going to be happy.

“A masterpiece, huh?”  Uncle Pete said, proudly.

“Holy smokes,” Uncle Johnny repeated, shaking his head.

“What?  I think it’s much better than before,” said Uncle Pete.

“It used to be much bigger,” said Uncle Johnny.

“Do you know what it is?” asked Uncle Pete.

“It was a shrub,” Uncle Johnny stated.

“I know that!  I’ll give you a hint.  They bark,” Uncle Pete said proudly.

“It does?” asked Uncle Johnny, confused.

“Oh, c’mon.  Can’t you see the tail?” Uncle Pete asked.

“I really can’t,” said Uncle Johnny, slowly.

“Just step back.  Look at the whole thing,” encouraged Uncle Pete.

“I am.  There isn’t much to look at,” said Uncle Johnny.

“Everybody getting finished?” Pops bellowed as he rounded the house.

“Oh boy,” mumbled Uncle Johnny.

“So, Jim, what do you think?” asked Uncle Pete.

Pops’ smile was wide when he came around that corner but when he laid eyes on Uncle Pete’s masterpiece, his smile dropped pretty fast.  His eyes got big too.  And they seemed to get bigger and bigger as the seconds ticked by.  So much so, that I worried his eyes might pop out of his head.  All was very quiet during that time but I knew it wouldn’t last.

“What in thunder?” Pops said a little too quietly.

“You like it, Jim?” asked Uncle Pete.

“Just for the record, this all Pete’s doing.  Keep me out of it,” Uncle Johnny piped in.

“Yep, I came up with this beauty all on my own!” beamed Uncle Pete.

“My beautiful lilac bush,” Pops mumbled.

“Is that what it is?  I didn’t know but I think I’ve made it better.  Kind of straggly before,” Uncle Pete said.

“How could you?” Pops asked, a little louder.

“Well, it was pretty easy.  All I started doing was cutting.  Half way through, I had the idea I’d create a masterpiece.  Tell me you know what it is,” Uncle Pete said, enthusiastically.

 “It was a lilac bush,” Uncle Johnny said.

“No, no, I mean the shape.  Can you tell?” Uncle Pete asked.

Pops said nothing but his face grew redder by the minute.  He started breathing a little heavier, his chest heaving in and out.  I thought he might pass out.  I noticed him balling his fists and suddenly worried he might try punching Uncle Pete.  I didn’t think he would do it, but if he did, Uncle Pete was a former “Mr. Muscle Body”.  I didn’t think Pops would get very far. 

Uncle Johnny started whistling and slowly wandered back to trimming another bush.  He kept stealing glances at Pops and Uncle Pete, wanting nothing to do with what might happen.  Pops stood there huffing like a smoke stack, and Uncle Pete kept smiling expectantly.  He was clueless to Pops’ anger.

Just at that moment, a car horn honked and broke the silence.  A big red, convertible pulled into Pops’ driveway.  Three women riding in it waved in our direction.   I noticed that the woman in the passenger seat was Rosemary Wilson, the lady Pops spoke with at the Lookouts’ game and the woman he had dinner with.  I didn’t recognize the other two, but the one driving had red hair that peaked out underneath a yellow scarf.  She wore sunglasses and dark red lipstick.  The lady in the backseat had dark hair and she was also wearing sunglasses.  They honked the car horn again.

“Hey, boys,” cried Rosemary Wilson, waving.

I glanced at Pops, Uncle Pete and Uncle Johnny.  They looked dumbfounded.  It seemed like it took a full minute before they recovered.  Pops was first.  He raised his hand in greeting and put a smile on his face.  The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, probably because he was still thinking about how mad he was with Uncle Pete.  Uncle Pete and Uncle Johnny then followed, recognition on their faces.  They raised their hands too.  None of them moved.

“Cat got your tongues, or what?” the woman who was in the driver’s said, as she laughed.

“Of course not,” Pops smiled, with that sing-song voice again.  “We’re just surprised that’s all.  You caught us doing dirty yard work.”

“Oh, Jim.  That’s all right.  We were in the neighborhood and thought we’d say hello,” Rosemary replied.

“Well, that’s just fine, fine,” Pops said, smiling again.

“Hey, what about you, Petey?  Don’t you want to say hi?” asked the woman in the driver’s seat.

Once again, Uncle Pete was speechless.  He was staring at the woman and seemed tongue-tied.  Uncle Pete never lacked confidence, but he didn’t seem to have it where this woman was concerned.  His stupor suddenly wore off.

“Hello there, Millie.  Nice day, isn’t it?” he asked, a little weakly.

“It sure is.  A nice day for a drive in the country with the top down,” Millie crooned.

“It sure is,” repeated Uncle Pete.

“Well, Johnny, are you going to come and say hi to Betty, or what?” asked Millie.

“Hi, Betty,” said Uncle Johnny, not moving.

“Hi, Johnny,” the woman in the backseat said in reply.

“Jim, would you boys like to meet us later for supper?” asked Rosemary.

“Sort of a triple date and catch up on old times?” added Millie.

“Well, that sounds just fine with me.  What about you two?” Pops asked, turning to Uncle Johnny and Uncle Pete.

“Sure,” said Uncle Pete, with a slight screech in his voice.  It sounded like a ruffled cat about to claw the nearest dog.

“You okay, Pete,” asked Millie.

“He’s fine.  Just a little sore throat from talking too much,” Pops said in reply, giving Uncle Pete a dirty look.

“What about you, Johnny?  Can you meet us for supper?” Betty called from the backseat.

“Uh-huh,” nodded Uncle Johnny, his head bobbing up and down, and making no other sound. 

“Well, that settles it then,” said Pops, clapping his hands together and rubbing them back and forth.

“How about 7 o’clock at the Rio Grille?” Rosemary asked.

“We can sit out on the patio.  Should be a nice evening, not too hot,” Millie said.

“Isn’t that the new place up on the boulevard? We might need reservations,” said Pops.

“Already done,” Mille laughed. “I hear they have the best steaks this side of the Mississippi.”

“Looking forward to it, then,” smiled Pops.

Millie honked the car horn once more as they drove away, waving.  Pops waved back, but Uncle Pete and Uncle Johnny stood there like statues.  Once the car was out of sight, Pops turned to the other two.

“Hi and uh-huh?  That’s all I get out of you two?” Pops asked in amazement.

“I can’t help it.  She makes me a nervous wreck,” confessed Uncle Pete.

“Well, I hope you contribute to the conversation a little more tonight, or it’s going to be a long evening,” Pops said.

“Which one makes you a nervous wreck?” asked Uncle Johnny, suddenly.

“Millie.  She’s like a drill sergeant that never quits talking,” moaned Uncle Pete.

“Two peas in a pod,” mumbled Uncle Johnny.

“I’d talk if I were you.  You’re obviously out of sorts around Betty,” accused Uncle Pete.

“She makes me sweat,” said Uncle Johnny.

“Probably just the heat,” added Pops.

“Oh, no.  It’s her.  It could be twenty degrees outside and if I get anywhere near her, I look like someone who just got hosed down with water,” stated Uncle Johnny.

“That bad, huh?” asked Pops.

“Oh, yeah.  I’ll leave a puddle, trust me,” Uncle Johnny said.

“Wear cotton.  It absorbs better,” said Uncle Pete.

“I’ll have to bring a couple extra shirts to be safe,” said Uncle Johnny.

“Bring a stick of deodorant too,” mumbled Uncle Pete.

“You think the restaurant has showers?  I might need one half way through supper,” Uncle Johnny said, suddenly worried.

“Oh, for crying out loud, John.  Of course not!  Restaurants don’t usually have public showers, do they?” Pops stated.

“In foreign countries they might,” added Uncle Pete.

“Geesh, Pete, we’re not in a foreign country,” cried Pops.

“I’m already starting to sweat just thinking about it.  What am I going to do?” panicked Uncle Johnny.

“You do look a little wet.  Could be a problem,” mumbled Uncle Pete, studying Uncle Johnny carefully.

“There’s nothing to worry about, John.  Everything will work out for the best,” said Pops, giving Uncle Pete a warning look.

“You know,” begins Uncle Pete, ignoring Pops, “maybe you should bring a little fan with you.  A mini one that you could plug in at the table.”

“Give us something to talk about all night,” said Uncle Johnny, sarcastically.

“Trust me, they work,” continued Uncle Pete.

“Right.  And I can hear it now,” Uncle Johnny began, lowering his voice and pretending to have a conversation, “John, what’s the fan for?  Oh, it just helps me keep my sweat levels down.”  He crossed his arms and stared at Uncle Pete.

“I see what you’re saying,” admitted Uncle Pete.

“Tell you what, John.  Go on home, take a nap, shower and take your time getting ready for tonight.  There’s nothing to get worked up about,” said Pops.

“What about talcum powder?” Uncle Pete asked suddenly.

“What about it? Tried it and it doesn’t work,” Uncle Johnny said glumly.

“Really? Oh, you’re in bad shape,” Uncle Pete said, shaking his head.

“You think I don’t know it?” cried Uncle Johnny.

“Let’s be calm. Pete, you’re going to take John home.  John, you’re going to do as I suggested. Then we’ll have a nice evening with no worries,” said Pops.

So I watched my uncles drive away in the classic.  Pops had forgotten about the shrub incident until he started collecting yard tools.  He walked right up to the massacred bush and stood there staring.  Every once in a while, he’d shake his head and mumble something to himself, as if that would make the favored lilac bush go back to its original state.  He looked all around the shrub, over it and underneath.  I don’t know what he was searching for but it didn’t make a bit of difference.  Uncle Pete had ruined Pops’ shrub as sure as I was standing and there was nothing that could be done about it.  He gave up and walked away, still shaking his head.  I heard the words ‘Pete’, ‘moron’ and ‘knucklehead’ mixed together, in no particular order, so it was probably a good thing that Uncle Pete left when he did.

Updates and New Photos on Fine Art America

Work continues on the new manuscript tentatively titled Williamsburg Hill.  I had hoped to be finished with the first draft by the end of October but now realize that was a bit ambitious, particularly due to reasons I will share at a later time.  A new short story is brewing, too, and hopefully I'll share that soon.  For now, I'll update with some new photographs I've added to the Fine Art America site.  Autumn color in Baraboo, Wisconsin to beautiful Aspen, Colorado...sharing just a sample of the Ashcroft Ghost Town, Maroon Bells and the John Denver Sanctuary photos, too.  Higher resolution images are available at www.veronica-batterson.artistwebsites.com. You'll also find many more photos I've added there.

Thanks for taking a look!