Where the Red Fern Grows

If I could recommend one children's book that all adults should read, it would be Wilson Rawls' Where the Red Fern Grows.  Set in the Ozarks, the wonderful story was introduced to me in elementary school by a teacher, Miss Wilder (I never knew her first name), and the personalities of Old Dan and Little Ann still warm my heart.

Originally published in 1961, the tale is one of simpler times but the life lessons are relevant today.  Or they should be.   Some people could learn a great deal from the fictional character, Billy Coleman.  At age ten, Billy teaches us that working hard and saving his money for something he wants, but doesn't need, is worth the wait.  When he finally makes his big purchase, the "package" he's been working nearly two years for makes its arrival in the form of a couple of squirming Redbone Coonhound dogs.

Calling the hounds Old Dan and Little Ann, Billy and his dogs become inseparable.  He cares for them and trains them, watching in wonder as the dogs' instincts prove them superior in doing what they were born to do...hunt.  This causes conflict with the competition.

While the story is heartwarming, the strength of character shown by such a young boy stays with the reader.  Loyalty, compassion, responsibility and love are reflected through Billy's actions with his dogs and family.  You root for Billy and his hounds. 

While I won't give away the ending, you will need that tissue box.  However, the author softens the tragedy by introducing us to the Native American legend of the sacred red fern.  It provides acceptance, closure and allows us and Billy to move on.

Where the Red Fern Grows is over two hundred pages in paperback.  Amazon indicates the book is for ages eight and up, but I might classify it as being for middle grade kids.  If you wish your younger child to read it, I would suggest parents read the story first for content, or better yet, read the story to your children.  I shared it with my daughters when they were younger.  If you don't have children, it's still a good story.  Good children's books aren't just for children.

By the way, a movie was made from the story many years ago.  My advice?  Skip it and pick up the book instead.  You will feel and see Billy and his dogs through Wilson Rawls' words.  Those visuals and emotions are lost in the movie's translation.

Well, It's Getting in My Eyes

Nineteen years ago, we made a move that would change my life, or at least my perspective of it.  A new job uprooted our family tree, transporting us from southeast Tennessee and planting us in the middle of Grosse Pointe, Michigan (just outside of Detroit).

It was January of 1994 and it was cold.  I remember being cold all of the time, in fact.  A foot or more of snow carpeted the ground and it didn't go anywhere.  This southern belle's experience with snow was limited.  If we got the white stuff in the south, there were never more than a few inches at a time, and it melted quickly.  Snowstorms back then, while debilitating (they shut down everything), were brief.

My less than subtle introduction to a true winter was miserable for me.  I always thought if I'd gradually been introduced to the effects of snow, then I would have felt differently at the time, perhaps learning to like it more quickly.  But I was plucked from a no-coat winter, and plopped into the "frozen tundra" within a forty-eight hour time frame.  It immediately became my life and there was no going back.

Most of the side effects were physical.  I shivered all of the time and my feet were constantly cold.  Often, after being outside, I would sit on the edge of the bathtub, soaking my feet in warm water to get relief from the numbness.  Slipping on an icy sidewalk didn't help things.  Hurting my back in the fall caused pain, limited my mobility and intensified the feelings that were festering inside me about northern winters.  I hated them.  Those emotions wrecked havoc on everything else.  Dread and gloom filled my head at the thought of ever having to step outdoors.  I wanted to hole up in my house and nest until spring.

Slowly, things began to change.  One of the best memories I have of living in that community during the winter months involved sound.  The fire department would hose down the local tennis courts, creating an ice rink for the residents to enjoy.  At night, it was easy to hear the clink of skates on ice as kids laughed and played hockey under the tennis court lights.  I thought it the neatest sound and it was completely foreign to me.  Ice skating and hockey weren't southern sports.

That sound and the sight of those kids generated something in me.  My eyes began to open.  Perhaps attending some Detroit Red Wings games helped.  It was during the Steve Yzerman era and I got caught up in the excitement and fun of just watching the games, even if I never understood the significance of the octopus toss.  And to embrace Detroit hockey meant welcoming snow and winter in its full glory.  I eventually did.

I learned what everyone else had to learn...how to dress for the weather and how to drive in it.  Life went on regardless of the temperature outside.  Now, I can say with all honesty, I love snow.  It's difficult to remember winters without it.  Seeing snow fall is one of nature's most beautiful offerings and winter holidays seem enhanced by it.

Looking back, I wasn't the only one in my family exasperated by snow.  My younger daughter, just about to turn three at the time, wasn't happy one day when walking through a parking lot to our car.  It had started to snow heavily and, out of sheer frustration, she cried, "What are these things?"  I replied to her that it was called snow.  Her response?  "Well, it's getting in my eyes!"

I found a little rhyming poem I wrote about that day.  I've never claimed to be a poet, so please don't be too harsh.  It's just a sentimental piece I'm sharing about the time and my child.  As always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson ).

Well, It’s Getting in My Eyes

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

A child of three moved far away

Where heavy coats and mittens were needed to play.

Outside it was blustery, cold and wet.

“Who played in weather like this?” her mommy would fret.

They came from a place that is warm and sunny,

Here all the children looked kind of funny.

They were bundled and covered, not a visible face

Resembling monsters, aliens and things from outer space.

They wobbled and hobbled, barely able to walk

No words were spoken, they were too cold to talk.

Shivering and covered head to toe

They played and made snow angels in the fresh snow.

So this young child while outdoors one day

Looked up at the falling snow to say,

“What are these things dropping from the skies?”

“It’s snow, honey,” her mommy said.

“Well, it’s getting in my eyes!”

©Veronica Randolph Batterson

A New Year and No More Reluctance

Yesterday marked my blog's first anniversary.  This is quite an accomplishment considering I never had any intention of starting one in the first place.  Blogs (one of the most unappealing words, I think) did not interest me and I didn't really feel I had anything of narrative substance to offer readers.  I also didn't think I could keep up with the world's multitude who feel they do have a lot to say.  But I took advice and reluctantly started one, never thinking I'd keep it updated.

I began 2012 as "The Reluctant Blogger" thinking I must be the only person keeping a blog who did so unwillingly.  Clever, even.  Boy, was I wrong.  There are a lot of reluctant bloggers out there lending a voice to everything under the sun...diets, recipes, special interests, writing, acting, music, non-profits and businesses.  And I realize that each one of them do have something to say, however reluctant they may be, to those who are willing to listen.  If readers found them, then certainly I must have a minuscule place in the blogger world, I rationalized.

So the year's posts consisted of an eclectic and varied bit of "accounting" on my life, ideas and thoughts, in general.  I strayed from living in a haunted house to what Peyton Manning meant to me.  I mulled over time spent in Rome, Italy and the need to save our wild Mustangs, to funny things my kids said and living through the death of a pet.  My former antiques' business was the subject of a post, along with some short stories I'd written and an endorsement for visiting Tuckahoe Plantation in Virginia.  Of course, I plugged my books whenever possible.  A diverse subject list filled 2012 for me.  This blog didn't have a theme and I'll probably keep it that way.

So gone is that "Reluctant Blogger".  I've removed the title and probably should've researched a bit before naming it a year ago.  At the very least, I would have found just how many of us "reluctants" are out there.  For lack of a better idea, I just replaced the old title with my name.  Simple and nothing spectacular, but it is mine.

I look forward to continuing this as best as I can in 2013.  My goal is at least one post a month, something I accomplished in 2012 until December rolled around, then the holidays got the better of me.  Plus, completing the first draft of my next novel was a goal attained in December.  I'm certain I see a post or two about that in the coming year.

So if I don't meet that monthly target, the world won't end and the sun will rise tomorrow.  This blog will still be here and I'll continue to post when I feel like it.  Happy new year, everyone.  Thanks for reading.
    

Just in Case Uncle Sam Should Take Me

One of the best things about finding an antique or vintage item is learning the history or story behind it.  As a former owner of an antiques' business, I found many relics of the past but the ones closest to my heart came with names, notes, dates and photographs.  Maybe my love of history compels me to feel this way, but it's pretty special when a unique piece brings historical events and people to life.

Certain items catch my eye over others, including particular types of vintage jewelry.  When I had my business, I would attend auctions and estate sales looking for good quality pieces to resell.  I came across one with a meaningful history that I couldn't part with:  a double-strand necklace of blue and pink translucent beads (moonstone in appearance) in beautiful, mint condition from the early 1940s.  In its original Carson Pirie Scott & Company Chicago box, it also came with something extra.  Inside the box was a note in an envelope with the name "Eleanor" written on the front.  The gift giver lovingly wrote:

 "Darling,  Just in case Uncle Sam should take me. This will be my substitute to hang around your neck.  Love, John." 

I learned the man's full name and that the gift was intended for his wife, prior to him leaving for service during World War II.  No one could tell me his fate, whether he returned to Eleanor or if she lost him during the war, but I guessed it might have been the latter.  I came to that conclusion because of the note, and the necklace appeared to have never been worn, but carefully stored away. A symbol of special memories preserved for later generations to enjoy.

I also love particular vintage jewelry designers and knowing their history makes finding one of their pieces special too.  Miriam Haskell created some of the most exquisite and feminine pieces of costume jewelry during her time.  She was born in 1899 in Indiana and opened her first boutique in New York in 1926, working with the likes of designers Coco Chanel and others.  Even though she has passed away, the company she founded still bears her name and each Haskell creation continues to be made by hand.  I came across a Miriam Haskell bracelet (pre-1950) at auction and was fortunate to walk away with the winning bid.  Deciding to keep it for myself, I wear it for special occasions, its taupe seed beads and flowers delicate and unique.  I'm always on the lookout for vintage Haskell jewelry, particularly necklaces and bracelets.

Furniture and vintage photos also catch my eye.  My home is an eclectic mix of antiques and new, with the older furniture blending well and being used as much as the newer pieces.  From a unique drum table to a vintage piano that contained original sheet music and photos from the 1940s in the piano bench, I recall how and where each one was purchased and the stories behind them.  My dining room furniture came from an antique store in Detroit.  I like to think of the previous owners and the families who enjoyed Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners around this same table, or the children who learned to play piano while sitting at the one I now own.  It's the same with the other antique furniture I own and the ones I come across in stores.  My imagination comes up with all kinds of stories.

A particular vintage photo lot I won at auction contained an interesting photograph.  It was an 8x10 photo of a mock wedding held, circa 1900, at Bellevue Place in Batavia, Illinois.  This was the same Bellevue that hosted Abraham Lincoln's wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, when she was committed there by her son in 1875.  Bellevue Place was a private sanitarium for women from 1867-1965. The photograph I acquired came with a description and names of those featured:  all females, the photo was taken at a shower of one of the attendees, while a mock wedding was held and most of the women in the photograph were employees of Bellevue (groom and groomsman were women dressed as men).  I've no idea if the "bride" and "groom" were employees or patients, but it is a very interesting and unique photo.  Bellevue has now been turned into condominiums and apartments.  I imagine its walls have a lot of stories to tell.

A little whimsy and nostalgia would keep me from parting with certain items too.  At one particular sale, I came across a 1960s blow mold Santa Claus intending to resell immediately.  Standing nearly four feet tall, something about its blue-eyed stare prevented me from sticking a price tag on it.  After my husband rewired it, Santa now graces our front porch every Christmas season.

My personal collection also includes vintage perfume bottles.  Whether deco, ormolu or lovely cut bottles and stoppers made in Czechoslovakia, I find these items beautifully designed and worth displaying.  Sometimes the faint scent of perfume still lingers leading me to wonder what that meant to the woman who wore it. 

Even though I made the decision to close my business, I still love going to antique stores and browsing the rows and shelves of collectibles and artifacts.  Part of the joy of the search is always wondering how these items fit into the lives of the people who once owned them.  John's love for Eleanor spoke from the wonderful necklace I now own.  To think that every item from our past had meaning to someone adds significance to preserving and learning about our history.
  

Wobblers Still Hurt if They Hit You in the Head

In January, this blog will have its first anniversary.  Started as one of my 2012 New Year's resolutions, I had no idea how I'd come up with material to sustain it.  Yes, I'm a writer but I would rather work on my latest book instead of posting here in order to keep things updated and fresh.  It was suggested to me that I should start a blog to get my work "out there" and to sell books.  So I did and the appropriately named "Reluctant Blogger" came to be.  Everything I've written has been varied based on my own interests.

Which brings me to the topic of my latest post....Peyton Manning.  I have been following the Denver Broncos quarterback since he played in college at the University of Tennessee.  I'm not "All Things Manning" or a stalker and I don't hang out waiting to catch a glimpse of him (well, I live in Chicago so the latter wouldn't even be a possibility).  But I appreciate the person Manning seems to be and the fact that he's a UT graduate probably magnifies the admiration.

A little history is in order to explain that even though I'm female, I get football.  I understand it.  Growing up in the heart of Southeastern Conference football, the college sport consumes the south on Saturdays in the fall.  Everyone I knew bled UT orange, but like all other SEC backers, we supported "our" team first, then the rest of the SEC second.

Back in my day (yes, that sounds old), satellite and cable television did not exist.  Three networks, ABC, NBC and CBS provided entertainment.  The only SEC team that occasionally had a game broadcast was the University of Alabama.  That was a sad fact for the rest of us.  But it was the Bear Bryant era and Alabama always won.  Looking back I wonder if anyone else in the country knew about those other Southeastern Conference teams then.

So the lack of television coverage meant all other SEC fans depended on radio broadcasts for game coverage.  The University of Tennessee's John Ward was the voice of the UT Volunteers and the link for people who couldn't view the games to visualize the action on the field.  His "It's Football Time in Tennessee!" announced to all of us that the one thing that drew people together in front of the radio was about to begin.  And it didn't matter where you went on a Saturday afternoon in the fall, the radio would be tuned in to the football game.  If you had to make a quick trip to the grocery store or gas station, the game would be blaring for all to hear.  And if you happened to miss any action, someone would happily give you a play-by-play.

When I attended the University of Tennessee as a freshman, UT played Alabama at home that year.  I remember having to camp out for student tickets to the game.  Of course, it was near the end of Bear Bryant's run, so if you wanted to go to the game, there were things one had to endure.  And camping out for student tickets was one of them.  Game day was miserable.  It poured rain and Tennessee lost.  But I was able to see the legend in person coaching the opposition.  Since being an SEC supporter, even though the Vols lost, that was meaningful.

Fast forward approximately a decade and a half.  I was living in Michigan and Peyton Manning was quarterback at UT.  There was no orange in the "Mitten State".  Loyalty was to the blue and gold with the University of Michigan's only competition for support coming via Michigan State.  Little attention was paid to teams outside of the Big Ten (similar to the way it was for us in the south).

But I remember sitting in a restaurant one Saturday night with ESPN (which was alive and kicking by that time) tuned to one of the television stations on the wall.  Peyton Manning's photo appeared and the announcer was relaying the statistics for the game that day.  Tennessee had won and Manning put up incredible numbers, indicative to what he'd accomplish in the NFL.

Sitting behind our table, another group was watching the television too.  "That guy's a beast," someone exclaimed when hearing Manning's stats.  And it startled me.  Not because I didn't believe it, but because a little bit of orange had reached past the SEC and impressed someone.

Shortly after that, I was walking my daughters to school one morning.  Then I saw an amazing thing.  A little boy, waiting to cross the street, proudly wore a ball cap and sweatshirt in big orange colors with "Tennessee" emblazoned across the chest.  Orange in the land of blue and gold.  Yes, the media got the word out, but I couldn't help but think Peyton Manning had something to do with it.

During Manning's rookie year with the Indianapolis Colts, my husband and I were able to go to the last game of the season.  They played the Carolina Panthers, a team Manning's current coach, John Fox, would eventually lead.  It was the only time I've been able to see the former UT quarterback play in person and even though the Colts lost that game, it was still special for me. 

This season found Manning's return to the NFL after missing a year due to injury.  The season also started with him on a new team.  Many wondered if he'd be the same great player we were used to seeing the last fourteen years, and it appears he hasn't missed a beat.  When too much seemed to be made by the Denver media about his passes being "wobblers" instead of spirals, the quarterback's wit spoke loud and clear.  He quipped at practice one day to the members of the press standing nearby to watch out, "...wobblers still hurt if they hit you in the head".  It's a pretty funny quote taken out of context.

I've never met Peyton Manning but I appreciate the fact that he's a college graduate, and that he went to the University of Tennessee.  Education is important to me.  His intelligence and respectful demeanor underline what he accomplishes on the field in my opinion.  Manning is the reason I became a fan of the Indianapolis Colts.  But now that's changed for me.  I've always liked the Denver Broncos but his addition to the team is why I now watch all of their games (even if we have to pay the outrageous price for DirecTV's NFL Sunday Ticket).

Wherever Manning plays, I'll probably follow.  I'm not sure what I'll do with my Sundays when he retires...probably support the nearest local team, I guess.  But I'll always appreciate the memory I have of the little boy in Michigan wearing Tennessee orange during Manning's UT run.  Whether Manning had anything to do with it or not, I like to think he did.
 

Joliet Public Library's Regional Author Fair

For anyone in the area of Joliet, Illinois on Saturday, October 13, 2012, consider stopping by the Joliet Public Library's Regional Author Fair.  Held at the Black Road Branch of the library, it will run from 11 am - 3 pm and will feature a number of authors selling and signing their books.   For a list of authors and their websites, please check out the following link, sponsored by the library at Joliet Public Library Author Fair 2012.

This will be my second year to attend and I look forward to meeting everyone who stops by and says hello.  I'll have copies of my books, Billy's First Dance and Funny Pages, for sale and will be happy to sign copies.

This is a great way for the public to meet authors and learn about their work.  If you have any questions, contact the library via the above link.  To learn more about my books, check out the links I have here or visit my website at www.veronicabatterson.com.

Monero Mustangs Sanctuary

Research for my next book took me on an enlightening journey to New Mexico last year.  Driving up from Santa Fe, my husband and I stopped in Tierra Amarilla, a small town off US Highway 84, near Chama.  The route took us through Georgia O'Keeffe country and some of the most beautiful scenery I've ever seen.  With steep mesas that stretched as far as the eye could see, it was no wonder the artist chose to live her life there.  Add white clouds on the horizon and a deep blue sky free of pollutants and the view is breathtaking.

It was in this setting that we found Monero Mustangs Sanctuary, a haven dedicated to the preservation of the American Mustang.  Located on approximately 5,000 acres at Yellow Hills Ranch, the sanctuary is operated by Sandi Claypool.  Sandi and her late mother started the sanctuary in 2000 and it is now home to over 120 wild horses.  And the number continues to grow.

It is believed that horses roamed North America 10,000 years ago.  At some point, however, they vanished from the landscape and no one knows why.  Considered part of the American West's heritage, mustangs are believed to be descendants of horses imported here from the Spanish Conquistadors in the 16th century.  For various reasons, the horses eventually escaped into the wild or were "freed" by Native American tribes who resented the Spanish conquerors' ways.  Those surviving the hardships of living in the wild were the progenitors of the feral horse of today.

The mustang's (mesteño - from the Spanish word meaning "wild") plight is heightened by the number of horses grazing public lands and the Bureau of Land Management's (BLM) need to control the herd population.  When settlers started moving west in the 1900s, cattle ranching operations often competed with the mustang for grazing space on public lands.  Horse slaughter was too often the solution.  But in 1971, Congress passed the Wild Free-Roaming Horse and Burro Act to protect the wild mustang and stated in part that "they were living symbols of the historic and pioneer spirit of the west".

A few years later, the BLM began a program which allowed wild horse adoption.  Controversial in part because of the cruelty associated with the roundups, the BLM asserts the necessity of its actions in controlling which and how many horses remain wild on public land.  The organization also insists this allows an environmental balance to the landscape and prevents depletion due to over foraging.

Enter Monero Mustangs Sanctuary.  Some of the horses found at Monero Mustangs Sanctuary were acquired by this adoption process, while Sandi has also taken in horses through other means.  Allowed to roam freely, the horses remain wild.  They naturally group and live within bands or herds.  They graze off the land but are only fed hay to sustain them through the winter months.  This keeps the horses healthy and also contributes to conserving the landscape.  Over 3,000 bales of hay are used during this period and most are obtained through financial donations, which are tax-deductible.

Visiting the sanctuary was a unique experience for us.  The day was spent locating and viewing several bands of horses, seeing them interact with each other, learning some of their mannerisms and the reasons behind them.  My new favorite word for that day was "snaking", a movement the stallions make with their heads to keep their herds in line.  We were allowed to take as many photos as we wanted and Sandi was more than happy to answer our questions.  The day was relaxed and informative.  While not finding all of the bands in residence (some were people-shy, some avoided humans altogether), we still left feeling it was well worth the cost of the tour.  In fact, as a Christmas gift, our family sponsored one of the foals born on the premises in December.

Monero Mustangs Sanctuary is a non-profit organization and is one of several wild horse sanctuaries located around the country.  Good work is performed there everyday but there is always need.  They appreciate any and all donations and if you live nearby, they're happy to have you as a volunteer.  Tours are available by appointment.  For more information, visit their website at www.moneromustangs.org.