Mid-South Horse Review

Thank you to the editors of the Mid-South Horse Review for giving my book, Daniel's Esperanza, and a couple of my equine photographs a page in its April 2016 issue. Any and all acknowledgments, shout-outs, mentions and promotions are always appreciated. Here is a screen shot of the actual page, but you can visit their site at Mid-South Horse Review.  The print edition is available at newsstands, too.

The Booksellers at Laurelwood

The Booksellers at Laurelwood, Memphis, TN

I'd like to thank The Booksellers at Laurelwood in Memphis, TN for placing my book, Daniel's Esperanza, in such a nice location in their store.  It's encouraging and means a great deal to me that there are bookstores willing to support independently published authors.  If you live in the area or ever visit Memphis, stop by this great bookshop.  

Bookstock 2016 - Memphis Area Authors' Festival

As mentioned in my previous post, I will be participating in Bookstock 2016, the Memphis Area Authors' Festival on April 23, 2016 at the Benjamin L. Hooks Central Library in Memphis, TN. Sponsored by the Memphis Public Library, the event runs from 11am - 3pm. If you're in the area, stop by and say hello. I will have copies of all three of my books (Daniel's Esperanza, Billy's First Dance, Funny Pages) for sale. Over forty authors will be participating. Come out and meet us...it's sure to be a great day!

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.