The Comma Goddess Speaks: Musings on Life's Joys & Vexations

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Fri, 31 Oct 2025 18:51:00 +0000

10 Ways to Make a Bad Day Better

My days have been pretty good here lately, but we all know those crummy ones roll around sooner or later. Don’t give in to them! The older I get, the more I realize we are very much the determiners of our own destiny—on a day-by-day basis, at least. We can choose how to react to less-than-perfect days, whether their badness comes in the form of weather, events, encounters (or the lack thereof), and by choosing NOT to let our happiness be derailed by some external force, we can salvage that day for good.

If your happy mood is about to be hit broadside, try one of these tips:

Take a 10-minute walk outdoors by yourself. Okay, so this might not be an option if it’s raining like crazy or there’s a blizzard in town but, otherwise, this is a terrific way to “push your reset button,” as my friend Pat used to say. Pay attention to detail: a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, an old guy walking his dog, a shopkeeper fixing a window display. The point is to realize what’s happening in your life is a tiny little speck in the great scheme of things. Whatever’s out of sync will pass.

2. Indulge in a treat that’s good and good for you. Chocolate milkshake, probably not so much, but a straight-from-paradise Honey Crisp apple or a banana and peanut butter sandwich? Maybe all that’s wrong is low blood sugar or the need for a caffeine fix. You’d be surprised how grumpy that can make you!

3. Look for a gift. Not one topped with a bow, but one you’ve overlooked. Parking place at the front of the lane? Happy little bird singing outside your window? Your favorite song on the radio? I call those little presents from God. He knows when you’re in a rotten mood and he may not be able to orchestrate a lottery win or heal your plantar fasciitis, but pay attention and you’ll be amazed at how many times He tries to say, “Here, will this help?”

4. Focus on the least worst thing you’re dealing with. Yes, I’m fully aware I have an inner Pollyanna that annoys people to no end but, really, does it do any good to wallow in your misery? (Okay, sometimes a short pity party does help.) Skip past the emaciated savings account, the fight you had with your teenager, the fact that your mom is getting more and more forgetful, and dwell on the fingernail you just broke. Will you die from that? No. Will you lose your job over that? No. Will said nail grow back? Yes. See? That's one thing that's not nearly as awful as it could be.

5. Put things in perspective. I know, from where you sit at the moment, life looks pretty sorry. But switch views. Pretend you’re your 13-year-old neighbor, or your 80-year-old uncle, or the homeless guy on the corner, or Meghan Markle. You might decide you like your life a lot more than you thought.

6. Don’t be a Don’t-Bee; you be a Doo-Bee! Anybody remember the TV show, “Romper Room?” We’re never too old to take good advice: don’t be a Negative Nelly when you can be a Positive Pammy! Sometimes changing your mood is as easy as making up your mind to adjust your attitude.

7. Turn on your radio. Or your MP3, cell phone, CD player, or whatever is the handiest source of music. (Maybe one of your coworkers will do an Elvis impression for you.) Music has an uncanny ability to immediately transport us to a different place and time, especially if it’s a song with fond memories attached. Music is the quickest path I know from crabby to happy (along with #9!).

8. Find something to make you laugh. Go to YouTube and search for laughing babies or goofy animals. Revisit your email joke folder. (You have one of those, right?) Take a break to go read funny greeting cards. Pull up a comedy on Netflix. Not only will you feel better, you’ll add a few years to your life.

9. Find something four-legged and furry. Okay, maybe if you’re a fan of reptiles, a snake can make you smile, but my money’s on mammals. I dare you to stay downtrodden while there’s a kitten in your lap, a dog grinning in your face, a meerkat peering up at you, or a horse nuzzling your neck. Animals = smiles.

10. Do something for someone who’s not expecting it. Sometimes, reminding yourself that it’s not all about you can get you past those rough spots. Focusing on someone else will get your mind off your worries and doing something for someone else, well, that makes you feel good all over. How about putting quarters in a bunch of parking meters downtown, or buying a burger for the lady behind you in the drive-thru? I guarantee that if you surprise the tellers at your bank with a bag of donuts they will treat you like a hero, and if you take a couple of board games or a basketball to your local women’s shelter, you may turn your bad day into the best one ever.

Things We Don't Forget

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Tue, 09 Sep 2025 18:25:00 +0000

I was four years old when Hurricane Donna hit Hardee County, Florida in 1960. Let me save you the trouble of doing the math by telling you that, even though it's been 65 years, I still vividly remember the experience--and I mean remember as in I can still play back specific moments in my head like a black and white movie. Black and white--or, more accurately, grey--because that's all there is when a storm of that intensity comes to town: roiling grey skies...sheets of incessant grey rain...suffocating grey shadows in homes and offices where power failuresw make time and humidity unbearable...nothing but swirling, smothering, sopping, seething grey. It was like Mother Nature swept in and sucked out all the color in the world.

Wauchula in 1960 was right up there with Mayfield and Mayberry—a wonderful small town full of gracious homes, manicured yards, a friendly and flourishing downtown, and a thriving agricultural industry based on cattle and citrus groves. Ours was a close knit community of good citizens, good neighbors, and strong faith. Enter Donna, a storm that raged for nine days--September 2 to September 11—as she churned through the Atlantic, demolished Florida, then ripped on up the U.S. East Coast. To date, Donna is the only storm on record to generate hurricane-force winds from Florida to New England. A Category 3 storm for most of her duration, at one point, Donna actually grew into a Category 5. Because of her devastating impact (nearly $3 billion damage, in today’s dollars) and high mortality cost (364 people died), the National Hurricane Center declared that the name Donna would never again be used for an Atlantic storm.

Here are the memories I have of that once-in-a-lifetime event:

1. Sitting behind the screen of our front door watching the wind lift the right corner of the roof off the house across the street, over and over again. (The Lambert’s house.)
2. Watching a palm tree that stood in the corner of the Lambert’s yard blow over and crash into that roof.
3. Opening our garage door and walking out to stand in our driveway as the eye of the storm passed over. It was absolutely silent and I was mystified at how there could have been such turmoil and then such stillness.
4. My mother cooking our meals on a campstove.

Tragically, any mercy shown to my hometown in the years since Hurricane Donna came to a too-bizarre-to-seem-real end in the summer of 2004 when three hurricanes ravaged Hardee County back to back in a span of six weeks. Buildings that had stood for generations were destroyed, lives and livelihoods were swept away, there was no power for more than a week.

Every year as hurricane season arrives, I suspect many of us dredge up those memories of past disasters and offer up prayers that, this year, we'll be spared. Because if you've ever lived through a Donna--or a Helene, Ian, Harvey, Hugo, Katrina, or Camille--you never forget.

Ten Best Objects to Inspire Creativity

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Mon, 27 Jan 2025 16:39:00 +0000

Whether for you--to sidestep a deadline, lift you out of a funk, or stimulate your muse--or for your children--when cash is limited, you don’t want to make a trip to the store, or you want to stimulate their muse—here are ten things that offer hours’ worth of entertainment:

1. A box of crayons—best served with a side of paper. My favorite crayon memory: creating a puppet show of Cinderella. I made the characters out of a white shirt box and the theatre out of a brown cardboard box; I worked on that project for days, and enjoyed it for months afterwards.

2. Pipe cleaners—I haven’t seen anyone with a pipe in thirty years, but I presume pipe cleaners still exist—for crafters, if not for pipe-smokers! Great entertainment for road trips (for passengers, not drivers), shopping trips (the kids may not even notice how long it’s taking you to try on those clothes), and those challenging too-old-for-children’s-church-but-too-young-for-the-sermon years!

3. Duct tape—There’s pretty much nothing you can’t create from duct tape. My son has made DT cell phone holders, DT shoes, DT glasses cases, DT wallets…and did you know your teen could win a cash scholarship (https://www.duckbrand.com/stuck-at-prom) for creating duct tape prom outfits?

4. Old magazines—Give me a magazine and I can stay busy for days. Paper dolls, collages, “found” poems, writing prompts, paper jewelry, examples of great ads, term paper topics, etc. etc. etc. Needless to say, some titles offer more potential than others. I recently flipped through a copy of Us magazine; oh, my, what a waste of a tree!

5. Fabric remnants—If you like to sew or quilt, the possibilities here are obvious, but even if you don’t, I think scraps of material can set off a maelstrom of ideas. If you have remnants of different textures (like fleece, fur, or satin), that’s even more fun. One of my sons’ pediatricians had a fabric collage of a farm covering one wall of his waiting room, with quilted white batting for clouds, beige burlap for hay, red and white gingham for the barn, etc. Even after all these years, every time I remember that wonderful mural, it makes me want to start piecing together grass and cornstalks!

6. A can of spray paint—This option is probably not good for the under 10 set, but otherwise, a can of spray paint and an ugly, worn out, or cast aside object can make for a busy and productive afternoon. Who knows what “repurposing” possibilities you might have lurking under your sink or in your garden shed?

7. A wicker basket—Any size, any style. Give it a coat of spray paint (see #6!), weave in a length of ribbon or a few silk flowers, add a few cookies, and you have a terrific gift that’s filled with lots of love. Baskets also offer great possibilities as storage containers and wall decorations.

8. Shoeboxes -- Now I tend to fill them with toys and donate them to Operation Christmas Child (https://www.samaritanspurse.org/what-we-do/operation-christmas-child/) but, as a child, I turned them into beds for my dolls, decorated them and used them to store “special treasures,” turned them into buildings and made shoebox “villages,” glued same-size ones together to make shelving units, and created custom-decorated homes for critters ranging from frogs to baby chicks.

9. Buttons—Well, you could hunt down the garments they came from and sew them back on, but if the buttons in your button box are like mine, they’ve probably been around so long you have no idea from whence they came. Use them to make jewelry instead, or mix them with construction paper and a few scraps of #5 to create adorable greeting cards. 4-year-olds and up can string them into “button people” with shoelaces or yarn, or arrange them into pictures and glue them onto paper or cardboard.

10. A legal pad—Ah, now this is the best tool of all to get those creative juices flowing! What’s on your mind: a grocery list? Things to do today? An overdue letter to your favorite aunt? A few lines about the chat you had with your son this morning? You’d be surprised how easily the words come when you give them a chance.

My snowman, by the way, which I built last week on the rail of our deck, was inspired by a tiny little box I found rolling around among some giftwrap. I thought it looked like it had great potential as a hat. When I found a little piece of gingham ribbon a few moments later, and a leftover marker from some long-disposed of game, I knew instantly they had a new purpose in life!

A Book By Any Other Name

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Thu, 25 Apr 2024 14:20:00 +0000

I'm starting to feel like a literary dinosaur, or maybe like a forty-year-old size 10 feels in Hollywood. Why? Because the world of books as I know it is changing.

My hat is off to Rebecca Yarros and J. K. Rowling but, frankly, I don't have any interest in reading OR writing about dragons or wizards. I like to read and write about normal people with normal lifestyles. (Well, actually, I like to read and write about Southern people with Southern lifestyles which, to some, is weirder than wizards, but that's only if you didn't grow up eating grits and collards. Not together, mind you; that would be weird.) I appreciate an old Star Trek episode as much as anyone, but when it comes to literature, I like my plots to revolve around familiar things and my characters to come from Planet Earth. (Okay, I admit that Douglas Adams did lure me into paranormal places and I enjoyed it, so I get points for being a little flexible.)

Furthermore, I do not want to cozy up with a Kindle; I want to curl up with a book. I get constant sales pitches telling me how wonderful Kindle is. Maybe so, but I'm not interested. I like my tales to come with pages and covers and pictures and blurbs that help me decide if I'm going to invest myself in that story or not. I like to walk by and touch old favorites on my bookshelves and remember the first time I read them, or how significant they've been in my life. Some of those books I loved as a child wound up in the hands of my children and I am eagerly and carefully preserving them for my grandchildren; what joy!

In my wildest dreams, I can't envision a world with no books. Is it possible to have the same relationship with a cold, hard, soulless techno-toy as one has with a beautiful first edition? I think not. Are turned-down corners and beautiful bookmarks destined to go the way of the formal dining room: fondly remembered but rarely used? One of the sillier justifications I keep hearing for the Kindle is that it can store text for up to a thousand books. Since the average person reads barely five books a year, that "benefit" seems a tad overblown--kind of like calling up a 747 to go buy a gallon of milk.

It was inevitable that technology was going to impact the world of publishing, and I'm certainly enjoying some of that impact: I wouldn't think of embarking on a road trip without an audio book, and I most assuredly would not want to go back to creating my manuscripts on a typewriter. But it makes me sad to think that some toddler in 2050 may never get to Pat the Bunny or ask Where's Spot? and find him. It makes me even sadder to think that a generation raised on shape-shifters and warlocks might dismiss Huck Finn or Anne Shirley as hopelessly dull in comparison.

I'm trying to be open-minded, but here's the bottom line: I'll take a REAL Trixie Belden over a virtual Top 10 any day of the week!

My Llove for Llamas is Over

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Wed, 27 Mar 2024 14:42:00 +0000

I am SO over my llama phase.

Once upon a time, I thought llamas were the most wonderful animals on earth. I had dozens of stuffed and ceramic ones. I had llama earrings, llama clothing, and accessories made from llama wool. Then, for a "significant" birthday, I decided I would treat myself to a llama trek. Instead, I ended up BUYING a llama from the woman who owned the llama trek company. Actually, I bought two; because llamas are herd animals, she wouldn't let me have my sweet little Smore unless I took his not-so-sweet buddy, Pongo. The bell that went off in my head as Pongo looked disdainfully down his nose at me (quite a feat since, at that point, I was taller than he was!) should have been a warning.

Three sons, two dogs, and two llamas made for a great life. We live in the country where there's plenty of room to romp and play, and llamas are the world's best pets: low maintenance, curious and clever brains, great eyelashes. Though my furry little fellows had great bloodlines, I quickly discovered I did not have the patience to go the show route (for their one appearance in a local parade, it took four hours a piece to brush and groom them!), and as a busy mom, I didn't have the time to pursue breeding them. Thus Smore and Pongo were left to enjoy life as "gentleman llamas"--lounging in the pasture, entertaining neighbors, sneaking out for an occasional stroll across the yard. We found out they loved guacamole taco chips. We found out they liked Christmas carols. We found out they love to sunbathe on scorching hot days. (Go figure!)

A couple of years ago, my beloved Smore passed away. He was twelve years old and had lived a happy life. As we buried him, I worried about Pongo, in spite of the fact that he had done little over the years to endear himself to me. Did I need to find him a new buddy? Did I need to find him a new home? I was worried he'd be sad and depressed. Ha!

Sweet Smore was barely in the ground before the pompous, arrogant beast I'd always suspected Pongo was revealed himself in full force. He snorted, he bucked, he charged--and, oh, yes, he spat--with great contempt and greater enthusiasm. He broke out of the pasture and headed straight for our back door, where he left a mound of "calling cards" then pranced around as if to say, "C'mon, cross that line. I dare you!" Once out of the pasture, it was almost impossible to get him back in. As long as Smore was alive, pasture breaks were no big deal; we'd lead both llamas right back in with a bucket of grain. But now, if any of us dared to leave the house while Pongo was on the loose, he'd come charging across the yard with malice in his heart, a look in his eyes declaring, "You want a piece of me? Huh? You want a piece of me?" Then he would GIVE us a piece: a hearty helping of stinky, slimy spit delivered with machine-gun force, and woe be unto whoever happened to be in his line of fire. As long as I was watching from inside the house, it was pretty darn funny to see this shaggy, 500-pound son of Satan terrorizing my 6 foot, 200+ pound guys. Not nearly so funny when I was the one running for my life--uncertain whether Pongo's goal was to kill me or claim me. I had no desire to experience either one.

For the last few months, ol' Pongo has been pretty docile. It's been really cold, and he likes cold weather, so maybe he's been in a better mood. Or maybe he's getting old and worn out. In any case, apparently he woke up this morning and decided it was time for a reminder about who's in charge. When my husband and son and I started to leave for work, there was Pongo in the front yard, looming like a long-necked, horizontal Abominable Snowman. I swear his eyes were twinkling; I know he was grinning. Forty-five minutes, four boxes of cereal, two ropes, and a Ford pick-up later, he was back in the pasture. His heart wasn't in this escape, I could tell, because one buck, one snort, and a few half-hearted charges were all the protest he offered. I think he just needed to show a little attitude for old times' sake.

But as I stood out there shivering in the cold, waving that bucket of corn flakes (a sorry substitute for guaco taco chips, I might add) and wondering if my life should be flashing before my eyes, I thought, "Lord, it's time You call this llama home." And then, I'm sorry to say, my next thought was, "Wonder what kind of pet a miniature donkey might make?"

I am truly my own worst enemy.

Alphabetical Escape

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Mon, 29 Jan 2024 19:23:00 +0000

I should be doing laundry today. Or ironing. Or taking advantage of the beautiful sunshine and happy 50s temperature and working in my garden. But I have been sick for a week and am just not quite ready to be productive, thus, my activity of choice at the moment is reading. A novel. Reveling in its ability to take me away from my living room and into someone else's. Just like that--in just a few well-crafted sentences.

I have loved reading for as long as I can remember--longer, actually; I can't ever remember not reading. My earliest memories are of books--sitting with them at my mother's feet, or pondering what to select as I searched through shelves in the library my childhood church was blessed to have. I read at home, in my car, on vacation, at meals if I have no companions, at night till I can hold my eyes open no longer. It fascinates and, perhaps, annoys, my husband; "Don't you ever just want to sit?" he asked one time, coming back to the car from a quick trip into the post office to find me with my head in a book.

I do other things, of course. I can watch old movies for hours, can spend all day in the kitchen conjuring up creative foodstuffs, can get happily messy planting a garden or attempting some craft. But books are the passion I return to day after day: when I finish one, if there isn't another waiting, I feel bereft, at loose ends. As with my choice of music, my taste in books is broad--although I have an admitted preference for happy endings and a strong aversion to gore. I choose books based on what I've heard or read about them, because I like the author's previous work, because the cover or title catches my eye, because the overview intrigues me, sometimes simply because the book is the "right" size (an inch to an inch-and-a-half thick, which means I can read it within a week) and the pages have lots of white space with appealing, easy to read type (though those selections must also have one of the previous attributes, as well!).

One of my greatest joys as a mother is that all three of my children love reading. I suppose I took that for granted until I realized at some point during my early carpool days that all children don't. What a sad discovery! I can understand how a child who struggles with language skills would find the act of reading a chore, but why on earth would a child who can read choose not to? Who would want to miss out on those glorious excursions of the mind? Just as I find people who think they hate poetry have simply never been exposed to enough of it, or had an unpleasant encounter with it, I suspect people who don't read--especially children--have suffered the same fate. What a tragedy to miss out on one of life's greatest pleasures--one that requires no work, no expense, no equipment, and no payback!

Okay, maybe some payback: as the new year starts, I encourage you to join me in taking every opportunity to celebrate and share the joy of reading. We've all heard stories about people whose lives have been changed because of reading a book; who knows what impact you could have on a child's life by introducing him/her to Charlotte's Web or The Little Engine That Could? And if reading doesn't bring you joy, I urge you to make an all-out effort to find it--in the pages of a novel, a memoir, a biography, a poetry book, or even a magazine. Join a book club, befriend a librarian, meet an author, do a search for "best books ever written," track down your high school English teacher, whatever it takes, because I promise you, it's worth it. Reading can take you places nothing else can and leave you with a feeling of satisfaction that nothing can take away...not even an election year.

Favorite Memories of My Brother

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Mon, 06 Nov 2023 20:00:00 +0000

My big brother was 18 and a senior in high school when I was born; I can only imagine what an upheaval in his life that must have been. For the first couple of years, I stayed in a crib in my parents’ bedroom but, eventually, I ended up sharing a room with my sister—9 years my senior. Our room was right next door to Roger’s, and the three of us shared a bathroom.

My earliest actual memory of Roger is of hearing him come in from a date, or whatever evening activity he’d been involved in. Vera and I would have long been in bed, lights out. But when he got settled in his room, locked the door, climbed into bed and spread out his cheeseburger and fries from Knight’s Drive-In, I would tiptoe to the kitchen, get a knife from the silverware drawer, and proceed to pillage the locked door that stood between me and that midnight feast. To his credit, Big Brother always shared. (The price I paid for those unauthorized entries would be exacted years later when, as a teenager, that room became mine, and any hope of ever locking that poor mangled doorknob was long gone!)

At some point in my early childhood, my brother had a Corvette. I don’t remember the color; I only remember standing in the passenger seat, grinning, my left arm wrapped around Roger’s neck. (No seat belts required back then.) In that memory, we are sitting in the driveway of our house, so maybe he never actually suffered through having to drive around town with his chubby baby sister holding on for dear life in his very cool car. In my mind, though, I was a regular passenger. About that same time, I developed huge crushes on my brother’s friends. I was four, they were 22, so the best I could hope for was a friendly smile or indulgent pat on the head. They could have viewed me as a total pain in the neck, but they didn’t seem to, and I appreciated that.

When I was five, Roger had a bulldog named Zipper. He decided to enter him in the dog contest of the Hardee County Fair, and he said I could be the one to walk Zipper out in front of the judges and show him off. I don’t remember if he won the contest or not, but I still vividly remember walking across the outdoor stage on that chilly November night, holding Zipper’s leash and smiling at the people out in the bleachers.

We always had music in our house when I was a child: Lawrence Welk on the TV, Guy Lombardo on the stereo, Mother whistling or playing her violin, Vera on the piano or organ, friends and family gathered around singing. Things really got fun when Roger sat down at the keyboard for some rousing rock and roll, or his duet with sister Vera of “Parade of the Wooden Soldiers”—the latter an annual and always anticipated holiday event (In later years, Roger’s soulful rendition of “Ol’ Man River”, accompanied by Vera, became an equally anticipated event.)

When I was about 13, Roger put me to work one day answering the phone at his furniture store. When I protested that surely there was something else I could do because what customer was going to want to talk to ME, he gave me a stern lecture in self-confidence: “The person on the other end of that phone has no idea how old you are. Be polite, get your facts straight, and you’ll do just fine.” That advice served me well during my adolescent years.

About that same time, or maybe a year or two later, I begged Big Brother to teach me how to drive. He agreed, and drove us in his turquoise El Camino out to "Wauchula International Airport" (pretty much just a big cow pasture), where he put me behind the wheel and proceeded to show me the ropes of shifting gears, pushing the gas pedal, using the turn signals and, most importantly, how to brake!

The summer I was sixteen, I wangled an opportunity to be a stringer for The Tampa Tribune, doing interviews with country singers. I spent the summer living in Nashville with Roger and going with him every day to the booking agency where he worked. I remember us having lunch at Morrison’s downtown on one of my first days there; famous faces were scattered around and as I wondered how I would ever be brave enough to take up these people’s time, Roger gave me another self-confidence lecture: “These people put their pants on one leg at a time, just like you do.” It was a glorious summer; Roger took me backstage at the Grand Ol’ Opry, introduced me to so many talented people, and the Tribune published every interview I sent them. I went home feeling like a celebrity myself!

Our father having passed away many years earlier, it fell to my brother to give me away on my wedding day. As we stood in the vestibule of First Baptist Church in Wauchula, Roger looking handsome in his suit, me in my wedding gown thinking, “Oh, my gosh, am I really doing this?!”, he smiled, squeezed my hand, and gave me the soothing words I needed to hear before walking down the aisle.

You delivered a lot of soothing words over the years, Big Brother. Thank you for all of them; thank you for everything. I'm going to miss you. A lot.

Words, Take Me Away!

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Wed, 23 Aug 2023 21:13:00 +0000

Forget bath salts. When I want to be whisked away from reality (as I do this afternoon!), nothing offers a speedier getaway than books--specifically, novels. I enjoy reading nonfiction, too, but when things like broken A/C, weeds/endless weeds, piles of paperwork, an overloaded to-do list (isn't it always?!), and sundry undone-and-impending tasks are pecking at my brain like angry bluejays, it's to fiction that I fly.

At the moment I'm reading Pamela Duncan's Plant Life, and while Laurel Granger's life makes my mine look positively serene (even in my current agitation!), the Carolina surroundings soothe me and and the family banter makes me smile. But I'm no Southern snob: Lorna Landvik's Minnesota settings lift my spirits, too. In fact, I hate to see Landvik's novels end; even though her plots are typically contemporary and realistic, they transport me far away from my own reality and into a "happy place" in my brain that is truly divine.

Words have done that for me since I first discovered the joy of the alphabet at age four. There is simply no level of fatigue, despair, or frustration that can't be held at bay by a good tale. Most recently, I've fallen under the spell of old "Gunsmoke" shows. Good/evil, black/white, love your horse/punish the gunslinger...what a blissfully simple code of ethics! Makes me wonder in these turbulent times (and would we feel quite so turbulent if we stopped listening to the news?) if we wouldn't all benefit from a daily dose of Fannie Flagg or Carl Hiaasen (now THERE's diversity for you!). I'm thinking we'd sleep better at night if a novelist had the last word instead of a talking head.

Just a thought.

All I know is I can't WAIT to get home and see what happens next at Pamela's plant in Russell...

Who knew a squirrel could be cuddly?

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Fri, 30 Jun 2023 15:50:00 +0000

During Vacation Bible School at my church recently, to inspire everyone to dig deep into their piggy banks and support our designated mission project, I invited a local animal rescue organization to bring some of their critters and talk about their work.

To say that the ladies who came made an impression would be an understatement. The children were mesmerized by the chance to see and touch a sugar glider, raccoon, and squirrel up close, and we adults turned into big puddles of mush--begging to hold and cuddle these wild things that fate has domesticated. (Okay, calling Buddha the Raccoon "domesticated" would be a stretch, but he was amiable and accommodating, if not docile!) Hazel the Squirrel, brain damaged at an early age due to a fall from her nest, was an angel, happily nibbling nuts from our palms and snoozing contentedly on our shoulders. Splenda the Sugar Glider was cordial and curious but, being nocturnal, fell asleep and pretty much missed the party.

While we ogled and petted and cuddled these animals that were fortunate enough to be rescued from their sundry disasters, the rescue reps shared staggering statistics and sobering stories: the fifteen volunteers of their organization took in 11,500 injured, abandoned, abused, or endangered animals from nine different counties last year. (Do the math: that's almost 770 animals A PIECE--2 a day, every day for a year!) So where do these animals come from? Sometimes they're exotic pets that people get bored with or tired of. Sometimes they wander into dangerous or inappropriate places and someone calls for help. Sometimes a neighbor reports another neighbor who's tried to turn a wild thing into a pet. Sometimes someone sees an animal being abused and asks the rescue team to intervene. Sometimes a park ranger calls to say "the mama's dead and we have no way to take care of the babies." So off goes the rescue team, superhero saviors of the furry and the four-footed. Of course, these volunteers don't just show up, save the day, and drive away; many times they take these animals into their homes and nurse them back to health, give them a home until one can be found, or care for the animal until it can be released back into the wild.

Did I mention that these are volunteers? As in, they offer up their time, gas, resources, and homes for FREE, with no compensation whatsoever, purely because they have hearts made of solid gold? We were happy to bestow a week's worth of Bible school donations on them, but what we gave doesn't even begin to make a dent in what they need. So if you'd like your hard-earned money to go to something besides the gas pump for a change, toward something that is human kindness of the purest kind, consider sending a few dollars to support your local animal rescue effort. (And, yes, even a few dollars really helps!) If you can't spare cash, consider giving some time or supplies; these organizations are always in need of runners, clerical help, vet services, food, etc.

It's getting harder and harder to make a difference in today's world; here's an opportunity that's guaranteed. Buddha and Hazel thank you!

Remembering June in May

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Fri, 19 May 2023 01:04:00 +0000

Who’s your favorite mother? Well, besides your own, of course. Or maybe you always wished you had the mom down the street instead of the one God gave you—the one that let her kids come and go as they pleased, never issued all those pesky rules and ultimatums, and was SO much cooler.

While I greatly admire the wise and wonderful Marmee from Little Women , I must confess that my favorite mom is June Cleaver. A fellow mother of sons, June offered the perfect blend of intelligence, humor, assertiveness, skepticism, modesty, graciousness and spunk. During all those years when I watched faithfully every week as Mrs. Cleaver capably dealt with crisis after crisis, I had no idea I’d have a Beaver and Theodore of my own someday. Thankfully, my days as a mom never brought forth an Eddie Haskell or a baby alligator to deal with; even so, I feel certain my sons benefited from lessons my subconscious surely retained as I watched June carry out her role as Arbiter of Domestic Harmony without ever breaking a sweat.

In contrast, my own mother sweated a lot to keep me on the appropriate path to adulthood. Working in the yard was always her favorite way to reduce stress; let’s just say our yard looked TERRIFIC during my teenage years! While our living room looked just like the Cleavers', our confrontations weren’t nearly as polite--and occasionally involved a ruler, flyswatter, or switch to help focus my attention. Because I loathe confrontations and learned early the power of words, my favorite battle tactic was to leave a note on Mother’s pillow detailing her horribly unfair assessment of my sin du jour, her ridiculous overreaction, and the depth to which her wrath had grievously wounded me. It’s too bad she didn’t save any of those notes; they would have made great reading all these years later.

I worry about the moms we’re watching on TV and in movies today. Are they instilling/demonstrating essential traits such as honesty, compassion, and integrity? Self-respect and self-control? Do the Real Housewives of Wherever even know those terms? And if new generations aren’t being taught basic values, where exactly is civilization headed?

Be proactive this month: tell a good mom she’s worth a lot more than she realizes. And next time you vacuum, put on your pearls; maybe June knew something we don't.

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Wed, 22 Jun 2022 15:12:00 +0000

In a recent conversation with one of my Millennial sons, I made a reference to Herman’s Hermits. He was clueless. “You know, “I-I-I-m ‘enery the eighth, I aaaam…” I intoned. He shook his head. “There’s a kiiind of hushhhhhhhhh…?” Blank stare. Having thoroughly enjoyed Peter Noone and the current Hermit line-up in concert a couple of years ago, I felt a pang in my heart that my child knew NOTHING about those great songs. A few days later, listening to the ‘50s channel on Sirius XM in my car with another son, the Spaniels’ “Goodnight, Sweetheart” came on. “This is such a great song!” I sighed in pleasure. “Never heard it,” came the response.

Now, as a mother, exposing my children to different types of music was very important to me. I thought I’d done a good job—my youngest does a rousing rendition of “Up from the Grave He Arose,” my middle is pondering season tickets to the Charlotte symphony, and my oldest bought me a Mills Brothers CD for my birthday—but, that day, it occurred to me that we Boomers are blessed with a much broader musical horizon than any other generation. We grew up with that fabulous music of the ‘50s, ‘60s, and ‘70s. Those of us with older parents had the privilege of knowing music from the ‘40s, as well. What a gift to have four decades worth of incredible mood-lifting, finger-snapping, soul-touching, memory-marking tunes readily accessible in the jukebox of our brains!

So, for all the grief we Boomers are dealing with as we move from middle age into old age, comfort yourself with this thought: there’s not an arthritic hip, a bum knee, a cataract, or a foggy brain that can’t be perked up with the amazing music of our generation. Turn up your hearing aid and rock on!

Life Moments: May 2nd

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Mon, 02 May 2022 23:11:00 +0000

Things That Made Me Smile Today:

1. Waking up to discover that my rose garden went from 2 to dozens overnight!

2. A dog that smiled at me from the back seat of a truck. (The window was down.)

3. Lunch with my sister and two good friends. One of them is about to turn 90 and tells THE funniest jokes.

4.Listening to Pat St. John on Sirius '60s Gold. (He always makes me smile.)

Things That Annoyed Me Today:

1. An urgent care center marquee that is still advertising an event from October. Hello??? Doesn't anybody who works there ever read the sign?

2. The idiot who pulled out in front of me, made me slam on my brakes not to hit him, and then made a left turn 100 feet later.

3. The rude person who stayed thisclosetomybumper on a residential street where the speed limit was 35.

Can this be the year of kindness?

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Mon, 01 Jan 2018 21:39:00 +0000

I've just finished reading Wonder, by R. J. Palacio. I highly recommend both the book and the movie by the same name. The order doesn't matter; both are excellent and proved to be a perfect note on which to start a new year.

A central theme throughout the story is kindness, a trait that has been sorely absent in our world for some time now. As I devoured page after page about August Pullman's family, friends, and feelings, I was pleased to come across a little poem generally attributed to John Wesley among the "precepts" (defined as "rules about really important things") presented by August's fifth grade English teacher:

"Do all the good you can
By all the means you can,
In all the ways you can,
In all the places you can,
At all the times you can,
To all the people you can,
As long as ever you can."

It struck me that this is the goal toward which all of us should aspire in this fresh, new year. Face it: there is little we can do individually about hunger, violence, disease, human trafficking, or the hundreds of other issues with which political leaders across the world must struggle every day. But we can do a lot in our own tiny circle of existence if we consciously make a choice to consistently do the good thing, the wise thing, the generous thing, the kind thing.

I am making a pledge to myself to try and heed Rev. Wesley's admonition on a daily basis in 2020. Will I fail? Undoubtedly. But I just might tip the scale toward something positive--and I like the thought of that.

The Return of the Generation Gap—in the Grocery Aisle

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Wed, 01 Nov 2017 19:27:00 +0000

Today's generation gap isn't centered around music (much to their chagrin, I quite like most of the bands my sons listen to); it's centered around food. In a recent survey done by The Institute of Grocery Distribution, statistics show that shoppers under 35 are twice as likely to want organic food as those over 35, and a third of them don't mind paying more for it. Those under 35 are also more likely to waste less food, cook from scratch, and base their food purchases on a company's reputation for social responsibility.

Having read Michael Pollan's riveting and enlightening book, The Omnivore's Dilemma, my eyebrow inevitably quirks any time I read a product's proud proclamation as "Organic!!!" (though I've recently conceded that if I'm planning to eat the peel on a fruit or vegetable, perhaps it really is worth paying for the chance it might actually be pesticide-free). Meanwhile, my 29-year-old's silent stares of recrimination when he's with me in the produce aisle are such that—at least when he's around—I find myself picking up organic more and more. In fact, the changed eating habits of my three sons—all under 36— have changed my own grocery buying habits dramatically. Gone are the white bread, soda, chips, cold cuts, and sugary cereals they loved in their youth. Now they ask for brown rice, dried beans, sweet potatoes, oatmeal, whole grain pasta, and Brussels sprouts. Yes, Brussels sprouts.

How is it that a generation raised on Pop-Tarts, Red Bull, and sundry processed foods has suddenly discovered their inner Euell Gibbons? These are children who grew up with 2XLs and Furbies, not Easy-Bake Ovens—children who ate more meals in back seats than at dinner tables because their parents were always working or on the go. That 29-year-old who now sneers when I reach for sugar instead of raw honey was the "Taco Bell Kid" until his passion evolved from burritos to bicycles a few years back.

But all this purity is a good thing, surely—and not just for those farmers wily enough to grab on to a USDA label. (Go for it, guys; you farmers deserve any break you can get.) Certainly there's enough evidence now to convince us that homemade whole wheat bread is healthier than a loaf of Sunbeam, that snacking on a fresh apple from a local orchard is a better choice than French fries from a local McDonald's. And how can you fault a mom who works all day then comes home and willingly makes kale and goat cheese calzones—with tomatoes and basil from a backyard garden, no less—instead of whippin' it through the Pizza Hut drive-thru?

No, I'm quite willing to let the Millennials lord their superior nutritional standards over us Boomers, because while I will never feel the need to apologize over serving up a cake that started with a box from Duncan Hines, I readily admit that Happy Cow un-homogenized whole milk, with no additives, from [happy!] grass-fed cows, is significantly better than ye olde mass produced 2% and worth the price difference. Meanwhile, it's pressure (read: guilt) from my own 3 Millennials that has reduced my soft drink consumption to almost nil, my fast food meals to a minimum, and my love affair with white food to the occasional crush. For that, I credit them (and say a heartfelt thank you) for a healthier body and a hefty weight loss.

I'm not quite ready to jump on the tofu wagon or give up Coke completely, but if this generation wants to raise their own chickens, bake their own bread, grow their own fruits and vegetables or insist on buying what goes into their bodies from someone they know instead of from Monsanto, who are we to stand in their way?

Respecting those choices is the least we can do after raising them on Pop-Tarts and Tang.

Is Encouraging Entrepreneurship the Solution to Unemployment?

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Wed, 03 May 2017 20:00:00 +0000

The man in the middle is my dad. He started a Western Auto franchise in a tiny little town in central Florida and won one top sales award after another. He loved his employees and they loved him!

Did you know this is Small Business Week? Sponsored by the U.S. Small Business Administration since 1963, this annual celebration of the foundation of the American economy is a great time to consider a few facts you might not know:

More than half of Americans either own or work for a small business.
Small businesses create 2 out of every 3 new jobs in the U.S. each year. From the end of the recession (mid-2009) through mid-2013, small businesses were responsible for 63% of the net new jobs.*
From 2002 to 2012, self-employment among young people age 25 and under decreased by 23%. In that same time period, self-employment among senior adults 65 and over increased by 66%.

I'll come back to that last bullet point in a moment but, in the meantime, if you think big business is where big ideas come from, think again: a 2008 study** from the SBA’s Office of Advocacy found that small companies are much more likely to develop emerging technologies than are large ones. Plus, small business owners have a strong interest—and an active voice—in economic and political affairs: a whopping 95% are registered voters and 84% vote on a regular basis. Small business owners put their money where their mouth is, too: 91% of them routinely volunteer for, and donate to, nonprofit and community organizations.

So why, when small business is the proven backbone of this country, have we made it so ridiculously hard to start one? Even if they can figure out what licenses have to be obtained, what forms need to be filed, what regulations must be adhered to, and what taxes need to be paid, what small business owner has time to DO all that when he or she is likely working 70-80 hours a week to get that new business off the ground? And how’s he supposed to pay for all those licenses and taxes when he’s barely generating enough to stay afloat in those early days?

Let’s go back to that last bullet point. We know why seniors are starting their own businesses—they can’t afford to retire and just sit on the porch—but why the decline in entrepreneurial efforts among young people? I’m thinking it’s because there’s so much red tape and so many roadblocks, which is a crying shame because it seems to me that starting their own business would be an ideal way to get unemployed young men in our urban areas off the streets and into a productive lifestyle. Seems to me big cities with big crime problems, big drug problems, big gang problems and other issues that seem to center around big numbers of idle young males would do well to offer free classes in entrepreneurship then do whatever they can to help these fellas take a shot at running their own business. Seems as good a strategy as anything else and, who knows? Instead of getting swept up into illicit activities due to boredom or desperation, those streetwise, calculating young brains might instead spawn some amazing contributions to society.

If you’re the owner of a small business, take a moment right now to pat yourself on the back for your role in helping to sustain the U.S. economy, because starting and running a business has never been more challenging. If you’re one of the 25% that has hung in there for 15 or more years, you really deserve some applause. Meanwhile, if you work in the corporate world, as you go about your routine for the next few days, think about the many ways small businesses make your life better—from your local grocer and your hair salon to your day care and your vet. It would be a sad world without them, so how about a tip of the hat and a word of appreciation? They’ve earned it.

*SBA’s Office of Advocacy
**“An Analysis of Small Business Patents by Industry and Firm Size,” by Anthony Breitzman and Diana Hicks

In Praise of Libraries

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Mon, 18 Apr 2016 21:32:00 +0000

Okay, so I'm late to the party: National Library Week was last week, but I was too busy reading then to stop and write a blog post. Now that I've finished my book, though, I want to spend a few paragraphs raving about that most precious of public resources.

I won't bore you with the history of how libraries came to be in most every city; let's just jump right to the fact that they're there and if you're not taking advantage of the one closest to you, you’re seriously missing out. First of all, your tax dollars are helping sustain that library, so you ought to be reaping its benefits. Second of all, you need to be setting a good example for your fellow citizens by showing them how easy and rewarding it is to be a library patron. And, finally, if you're not visiting your library on a regular basis, you are missing out on so many marvelous things (books are only one of a library's many assets) that those of us who do visit on a regular basis should be lined up murmuring laments on your behalf—but, sorry, we don't have time because we're so immersed ourselves in said marvelous things. Also, it's pretty hard to feel sorry for someone who doesn't take advantage of marvelous things that are there, free, for the taking.*

In the last month, my life has been forever changed by the three most recent books I've read: I Am Malala: The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban, by Malala Yousafzai and Christina Lamb; Extra Virginity: The Sublime and Scandalous World of Olive Oil, by Tom Mueller; and The Invention of Wings, by Sue Monk Kidd. I consider myself a pretty informed person, but each of these books introduced me to information I was unaware of, broadened my understanding of their respective topics, and dispelled longstanding assumptions I've maintained which have now proven to be untrue. On top of all that, each book kept me riveted for hours, bringing immense pleasure and satisfaction. Pretty spectacular payback for something that cost me nothing.*

This weekend, as I hungrily and regretfully finished the final chapter of The Invention of Wings, I found myself thanking God for words, and language, and the edification and connection that comes from written communication. We take it so for granted, but without the ability to read and write, without words to read and write, our world would not only be scary and confusing, it would be small and dull. I love nature and its many manifestations, but is our experience with a bird's bright feathers and merry song not enhanced by reading about that creature's lifestyle and unique characteristics? Is our encounter with ocean and mountain not deeply enriched by reading of others' encounters, as well?

I do not ever take books for granted; reading has been among my greatest pleasures for my entire life and I mourn the thought that, a hundred years from now, books and bookstores—even libraries!—as we know them may not exist. All the more reason to arise at this very moment and travel to a library near you to select a title (or two . . .or three!) that will transport you to a place you've never been, a place you dearly love, or a place you can only imagine.

See you in the stacks!

*Alas, unless you come on foot, you cannot experience the library for free at Greenville’s Hughes Main Library. In what is an abomination akin to requiring payment to attend church, one must pay to park at the downtown library. Therefore, I urge you to know what titles you want so you can get in and out in under 15 minutes (no charge!), go after 5 PM (no charge!), or patronize one of the branch libraries instead.

Rest in Peace, Rod McKuen

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Sat, 31 Jan 2015 22:34:00 +0000

I cried when I heard the news about Rod McKuen’s death. (Only briefly, because I was in a marketing meeting and the response when I gasped and said, “Rod McKuen died!” was, “Who’s Rod McKuen?” At that moment, I stifled my tears and questioned the company I am keeping. It’s hard for me to imagine anyone not knowing who Rod McKuen is, but there’s a link at the end of this that will enlighten you if you don’t.) For the moment, though, I want to talk about this man’s impact on my life.

Robert Louis Stevenson was the first poet I loved; Rod McKuen was the second. I was 12 and just beginning to discover the world beyond my small, central Florida hometown when my sister came home from college with Rod’s books and records. As the Viet Nam war and the civil rights movement raged on, as Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were murdered, as people everywhere were protesting everything, I slipped into adolescence on the wings of the gentle words of this Oakland-born poet who wrote about love and summer mornings, love and yellow buses, love and loneliness, love and snowfall, love and God, and love. Why my mother failed to intervene is a mystery; many of Rod’s poems fell far outside the parameters of my strict Southern Baptist upbringing. Perhaps she, like so many, dismissed poetry as unworthy of notice. Or perhaps she, like so many, never realized the impact that year would have on all our lives. In any case, as those months of ugliness, unrest, and uncertainty permeated the pages of history, I immersed myself in McKuen’s world of keen observations, pensive reflections, probing questions, and insightful assessments.

Along the way, I fell deeper in love with poetry. Since discovering Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses (every child should own this book) soon after learning to read, I already loved the genre. But McKuen’s simple, honest words took me to a new level of appreciation and inspired me to view the world in a different way—in my opinion, the most important thing poetry can do. From the beginning, the academic world dismissed McKuen as a lightweight, but the real world wholeheartedly embraced him. In the course of his career, the man sold more than 100 million records and 60 million books. His songs have been recorded by artists ranging from Johnny Cash to Madonna, and he earned a Grammy, two Oscar nominations, and a Pulitzer nomination. Some things never change: the academic world still largely dismisses any poet who is commercially successful. I’m not sure why it’s such a sin to have one’s poems adored by the masses; seems to me that’s the ultimate indication of being a successful poet.

In the end, my experience with McKuen’s poetry formed the foundation of my belief that poetry is most valuable when it readily resonates and is easily understood. That conviction is what led me to launch my annual April “Poetry Parade” many years later, which led to the birth of www.YourDailyPoem.com in 2009, a venture currently celebrating its fifth year with a subscription list that continues to grow daily. I actually exchanged emails with my poetic hero in 2003 when I hesitatingly asked permission—and Rod generously granted it—to share one of his poems in that year’s Poetry Parade. (I still have that email in my inbox; I will leave the task of deleting it to my children, when I am dead and gone.)

Not everything Shakespeare or Yeats or Frost wrote was brilliant; not everything Rod McKuen wrote was brilliant, either. But much of what he created touched the hearts of millions and for some, such as I, those words had a lasting impact. I am grateful for his talent and legacy, grateful to have been the recipient of my sister’s literary hand-me-downs, grateful that my introduction to love and its sundry pleasures came packaged in such tenderness. I will miss you, Rod McKuen, but I know the poets’ corner in heaven is definitely a bit brighter today.

To learn more about Rod McKuen, visit http://news.yahoo.com/rod-mckuen-mega-selling-poet-performer-dies-81-234455928.html.

It's Time for the Tao of Thumper

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Thu, 03 Jul 2014 02:56:00 +0000

"Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can."
-- Arthur Ashe, American professional tennis player

I read this quote today and thought, it's those who embraced and lived out exactly this attitude in the years leading up to 1776 that we need to be thinking about and thanking as we celebrate American independence this weekend. The people who gave birth to this country weren't special, weren't unified, weren't perfect; they were simply committed to principles they believed in and chose to do whatever they could, wherever they were, with whatever they had. Whichever of the increasingly divergent socio-eco-political principles you believe in, you owe your ability to sing the praises of those principles, ad infinitum and ad nauseum on the world's sundry news and social media channels, to those men and women who died defending theirs.

I am astonished, and saddened, at how angrily divided this country has become. Perhaps there have been other times like these; I can speak only to my own years as an American citizen. No longer is it a matter of simple etiquette to avoid the subjects of politics and religion in conversation, it’s absolutely essential if you want to avoid starting a fight or losing a friend. We can get past Coke vs. Pepsi and Rolling Stones vs. Beatles without too many hard feelings, but mention gay marriage or minimum wage or Hobby Lobby and things get ugly in a hurry.

For that reason, I don’t “do” politics online. Does that make me a wuss? Possibly. But if we don’t dwell on our differences, I can love you without liking your taste in senators or appreciate your sense of humor without appreciating your position on immigration reform. It becomes a different matter, however, when you start labeling my opinions as evil, wrong, or stupid simply because they differ from yours. You may think I am evil, wrong, or stupid, certainly, but how incredibly rude of you to say so—in a public forum, no less! I would never say those things about you.

To me, it's like books and movies that fill a great story everyone would enjoy with violence and profanity only some will enjoy. I don’t understand the logic of alienating part of your reading/viewing audience—especially if that audience is comprised of friends and family members about whom you ostensibly care. Seems to me a better approach, if you're determined to initiate controversial topics on social media, would be to share reasons why you support your particular solution/candidate/position rather than denigrating what others hold equally dear and declaring them deviant satanic morons.

I don't think anyone would ever call me an activist (except, perhaps, on behalf of poetry or the Oxford comma), but I never miss the opportunity to vote and I've enthusiastically volunteered in a number of political campaigns over the years (for various sides, I will point out; I am all about the person and the issue, not the party). I'm certainly aware of and involved in current issues and affairs, but I see nothing to be gained by vehemently espousing views which, no matter what they are, are guaranteed to invoke reactions ranging from mild surprise to rabid rage from anyone who doesn’t agree with me.

So as we celebrate the 4th of July and move another few days deeper into the unpleasant morass the next 28 months are shaping up to be, I'm asking you to be nice. I’m pretty sure that’s a recommendation given in the Torah, the Qur'an, and the Bible—though, goodness knows, we’ve certainly dropped THAT ball. As Thumper suggested, “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.” And whether you do it on a lake, at a barbecue, or with a protest sign in your hands, I hope you will celebrate your American heritage this weekend with the pride and appreciation it deserves. At the same time, I hope you will consciously rein in your animosity for your different-from-you-but-equally-deserving-of-respect fellow Americans. We are united, like it or not, and badmouthing your teammates when times get tough is poor sportsmanship at its most repugnant.

Americans are not always the best or the brightest, we are not always right or respectful but, in our 238 years, we have done much to make this world a better place. And beleaguered, flawed, and imperfect though we may be, we are still a land of opportunity in which I firmly believe the majority of folk are kind, generous, honest, hardworking, and fair-minded. Even the ones who prefer Pepsi and the Rolling Stones.

The next time you start to post something online, ask yourself if it is potentially (or, perhaps, intentionally?) inflammatory. If it is, please consider posting Mr. Ashe’s quote instead so that each of us might be inspired to start where we are, use what we have, and do what we can to make a difference in a positive way.

Who Hasn't Ever Said That Word? PLENTY of Us!

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Fri, 21 Jun 2013 22:08:00 +0000

NEW YORK (AP) — Paula Deen should hope for more fans like Jennifer Everett of Tyler, Texas, who carried a shopping bag filled with $53 worth of merchandise from the celebrity chef's Georgia store on Thursday. A day earlier, it was revealed that Deen admitted during questioning in a lawsuit that she had slurred blacks in the past.

"Who hasn't ever said that word?" Everett said. "I don't think any less of her. She's super friendly. She's a warm person who wouldn't hurt a fly."*

I haven’t ever said that word, Jennifer—and I take monumental offense at your assumption that such a vile racial epithet might roll off people’s tongues like a benign adjective. Using the Lord’s name in vain or dropping the F-bomb is one thing; those unfortunate word choices speak to poor judgment, a bad day, or lousy manners. But referring to a fellow member of our human race by a hateful, derogatory term that is universally recognized as a slur is a choice, not an accident, and it speaks directly to contempt.

I find that word so offensive I could not even bring myself to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to my children. Though I encouraged them to read that wonderful book for themselves when they were older, I simply could not say that word aloud—even within a literary context.

I have used it once in print—in a poem based on a conversation that left me staggered. If it is difficult to imagine any educated, ethical person willfully uttering that ugly word, it is impossible to imagine hearing it used against your own child. Reading this poem still brings tears to my eyes as I ache for the pain my friend suffered.

Parameter

She is a gentle woman—pretty,

with a sweet smile that is honest and warm.

We would be friends if we had the time

but we don't and so we are

barely more than acquaintances—

except that she comforts my mother

when I am not there,

soothes her in the night,

wipes the oatmeal from her chin.

And because even though

she has to do those things—it is her job—

she does not have to do them

with love, and so I love her.

I do not know her favorite color

or her childhood heroes,

but I know she adores her children,

enjoys her job, and loves to laugh.

She is a loyal friend, busy mother,

with a beautiful son and compassionate heart.

I think of us as alike until she tells me a story one day

and I am aware that no matter how many tears

I might shed for her pain, I can’t know her pain;

no one will ever call my child "nigger."

From She of the Rib (CRM Books, 2006)

No, Jennifer, every one has not ever said that word, and there is no apology—however heartfelt it may be—that can remove the stench from the tongues of those who have.

When the Spirit Says "Shout!" . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Thu, 30 May 2013 22:10:00 +0000

For the last week or so, when I awaken in the morning, I am singing the Doxology. (Only in my head, thus far; not sure what my husband’s reaction would be if I were to start warbling in his ear at 6 AM!) That song is as familiar to me as my image in a mirror, but it’s never been a particular favorite. Suddenly, though, its words seem glorious and essential:

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!

Praise Him, all creatures here below!

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host!

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!

My communication with God has always been more about thanksgiving than petition. I frankly believe He gives us way more than we deserve, so I’m constantly saying thank you—for the incredibly beautiful tulips I saw in Chicago recently. . . for the fact that my sons have reached adulthood in one piece and without undue harm . . . for my comfortable home, good health, and beloved friends. I do ask for guidance on a regular basis, but I hold back on special requests—thinking, perhaps, we might get only so many in the course of a lifetime.

To suddenly wake daily with a praise song on my cerebral tongue is a new experience, though, and causes me to wonder what has triggered this need to more effusively praise my Lord. There’s been no miracle, no disaster, no upheaval or resolution. At this point in my life, one day is pretty much like the next, so why this mysterious flood of gratitude emanating, apparently, from my subconscious?

I wish I knew. Could it be simply another new milestone in being older and wiser? Thus far, aside from the incessant need for reading glasses and the inability to cram quite as much into my days, the positive aspects of being over 40 (okay, over 50) vastly outnumber the negative. Perhaps I’ve just finally become aware of how many blessings flow daily from the Lord into my life. The beautiful birds that gather outside my office window . . . the network of creative, funny, wonderful people with whom I get to interact every day . . . the fresh eggs and vegetables that result from my husband’s hobbies . . . the words I read and write that bring such pleasure to my soul . . .

Truly, nothing good in life happens of our own volition; to arise singing praises to God is as it should be. So I’m fine if my newly enlightened (for whatever reason) self keeps up the early morning exaltations; in fact, I may see if my subconscious can work in a little brass and percussion. After all, Psalm 150 says, “Praise Him with the sounding of the trumpet . . . Praise Him with loud clanging cymbals . . . Praise ye the Lord!”

Selah! (And thank you to my son Jaron for his visual interpretation of my melodious dreams!)

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Sun, 20 Jan 2013 01:00:00 +0000

Good gracious. Here it is two weeks into 2013 and, I swear, we were all in a snit about Y2K just yesterday. How time flies when we're all so busy trying to make a living, get dinner on the table, and find something decent to watch on TV!

My old year ended badly when a precious friend unexpectedly died. I'll feel her loss for a long time to come, but she would want me to move past my sadness and celebrate all that's good in life, so I'm going to try and focus on that.

There’s a lot to celebrate! First off, I finally finished the rewrite of a novel I've been working on for two solid years. Secondly, after a long, exhausting stretch of self-representation, I've signed with Hartline literary agent Diana Flegal, the warmest, bubbliest person I've encountered in a long time. We met this summer, clicked immediately, and I'm looking forward to her guidance as we take my career into the fiction arena. What a transition to go from poetry to prose! Index cards have become my new essential writing tool as I try to keep track of hair color, eye color, middle names, favorite games, and repetitive words—ten chapters out!

Speaking of games, that's my third—and biggest—piece of news. En route to fiction, I took time out for a nonfiction project that sort of fell into my lap: my newest book, THE ART OF STONE SKIPPING AND OTHER FUN OLD-TIME GAMES comes out February 1st from Imagine Publishing, an imprint of Charlesbridge Publishing. The first review is a good one, so I'm crossing my fingers and holding my breath. Of course, if it never sells a single copy, writing it was a great experience; I had an editorial dream team (thank you, Charlie Nurnberg and Kate Ritchey!), the graphic artists totally captured the spirit of the text (thank you, Todd Dakins and Melissa Gerber!), the research was fascinating (who knew there's a World Egg Throwing Federation?!), and my sales reps are awesome.

We Girls Raised in the South (better known as GRITS) are taught from our earliest days that it's bad manners to draw attention to oneself, but in today's publishing world, there's about a 6-week window that determines if a new book will flop or fly, so I'm asking—in my most ladylike way, of course—for your help in making the most of that window. STONE SKIPPING is a collection of instructions and variations on every kind of game you can think of—from scavenger hunts and shadow puppets to jacks and Johnny on the Pony—plus all sorts of fun history and trivia in between. It’s a wonderful resource for schools, libraries, youth groups, Scout groups, teachers, activity directors, and families. Check it out at http://www.imaginebks.com/children/ArtofStoneSkipping.html, at your favorite local bookstore, or at any of many online booksellers. If you think it sounds worthwhile, would you please spread the word to anyone you think might enjoy owning it or selling it? THE ART OF STONE SKIPPING AND OTHER FUN OLD-TIME GAMES is available in paperback ($14.95) and as an e-book ($9.99). Watch for it February 1st, pre-order it now, and if you're interested in doing a review, let me know and I'll get a copy in your hands.

I hope your year is off to a good start, too. Stay tuned; I have a feeling more great things are just around the pike!

P.S. If there’s a great bookstore, toy store, or gift shop in your town, ask them to contact me about a signing event!

A Poem by Arabella Eugenia Smith (1844 - 1916)

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 00:56:00 +0000

If I should die to-night,
My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting-place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair;
And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair,
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress, —
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!

If I should die to-night,
My friends would call to mind with loving thought
Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought,
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said,
Errands on which the willing feet had sped;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words would all be put aside,
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I should die to-night,
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully;
The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance,
And soften in the old familiar way,
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?
So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night.

Oh, friends! I pray to-night,
Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow:
The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
Think gently of me; I am travelworn;
My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.

Ten for All and All for Ten--More or Less

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 15:15:00 +0000

A new poll reports writers' votes for the ten greatest books of the 19th and 20th centuries. It's worth reading the entire article here, but take a quick glimpse at the winners:

Top Ten Works of the 19th Century
1. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
2. Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
3. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
4. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
5. The Stories of Anton Chekhov
6. Middlemarch by George Eliot
7. Moby-Dick by Herman Melville
8. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
9. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky
10. Emma by Jane Austen

Top Ten Works of the 20th Century
1. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
2. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
3. In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust
4. Ulysses by James Joyce
5. Dubliners by James Joyce
6. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
7. The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
8. To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
9. The Complete Stories of Flannery O'Connor
10. Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov

Do you agree? Have you read all of these profound pieces of literature?

Aside from Middlemarch, I completely agree with the 19th century list. Despite my friend April's assertion that it's the best book she's ever read, I've never been able to get past the first chapter before thinking, "Nope, life's too short for this." Call me bourgeois; what can I say? In any case, I'd be hard pressed to choose a favorite from the rest of that list; all are wonderful stories whose popularity with generation after generation is certainly testament to their greatness. (My 21-year-old son is currently reading Anna Karenina and is completely captivated by it.)

The 20th century list is a little harder to cheer for. I've only read about half those titles (have tried to read Joyce but, genius or not, he's not my cup of tea) and, of those I have, neither Lolita nor The Great Gatsby would make my top ten list. I wouldn't have wanted to miss them but, frankly, my dear, Gone with the Wind and Little Women brought me a lot more pleasure. The stories of Flannery O'Conner, whom I discovered in high school, stay with me to this day, as do those of William Faulkner, who--admittedly--may be as much of an acquired taste as James Joyce, though I think Mr. Faulkner is infinitely easier to embrace.

Polls, as we are all too aware in this nasty political season, are often nothing more than polarizing tools of propaganda. I hope these will be, instead, a source of inspiration, conversation, and motivation for you or your book club. Most of us don't pluck War and Peace off the shelf for a quick read, and I'm afraid the few of us who still include libraries and bookstores on our list of hang-outs know a lot more about Stephanie Plum than Pip. But there's a deep satisfaction that comes with being "well read;" not only does it give us an advantage on Jeopardy and in Trivial Pursuit, it allows us to feel part of something bigger than ourselves--part of a giant mind meld, if you will, that transcends our differences and brings our disparate selves together temporarily, at least on a literary level.

My 77 Hours on the Left Coast

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 18:24:00 +0000

I just returned from a whirlwind weekend in San Francisco and parts therein. I've made several visits there over the years but, this time, my family came along and I loved introducing them to one of my favorite places.

The purpose of the trip was my nephew's wedding so that, of course, was the real highlight of the weekend. The nuptuals took place at The Tavern at Lark Creek, a charming Victorian inn nestled in a stand of redwood trees. Hard to say which was the more enticing aroma: food or trees! The weather was perfect, the bride and groom all smiles, and by day's end, they were well on their way to happily ever after and the rest of us were on our way to Frisco.

With a full moon shimmering overhead, the Bay was more enchanting than ever. With our limited time, we did what is de rigueur: Golden Gate Bridge, Embarcadero, Fisherman's Wharf, sea lions, Lombard Street, sourdough bread, and clam chowder. We mourned having to miss Alcatraz, Golden Gate Park, and a bike ride across the bridge itself, but we enjoyed an unanticipated trek (read: we got lost) through Oakland's International Container Terminal (a surprisingly interesting sidetrip!), a quick jaunt through the Larkspur Farmer's Market, and a marvelous stroll around Sausalito which culminated in a display of some wonderfully whimsical creations by Dr. Seuss at Petri's Fine Arts.

After so much romance, so much scenery, and lots of special moments with new friends and old, a last-minute suggestion led to the best denouement we could ever have hoped for. En route to the airport, we found ourselves at sunset at Ocean Beach. Oh, my goodness. California's coast has no shortage of stunning views, but this one is truly breathtaking. After our frenetic pace, it was like a visual elixer. We drank in the serenity, the more adventurous of us explored the morass of caves and baths below, then we joined up at Louis' Restaurant (less pretentious than Cliff House, and with an equally interesting history) to cap off our day.

Didn't leave our hearts in San Francisco but, boy, we sure brought home some good memories.

More Potato Salad, Y'all?

noreply@blogger.com (Jayne Jaudon Ferrer) — Wed, 11 May 2011 14:38:00 +0000

Now that late afternoon temperatures seems more or less fixed above 70 degrees, it's time to start thinking about cook-outs. We've already fired up the grill several times in recent days, which got me thinking about who I'd love to invite over for ribs and chicken or burgers and dogs. I'd even throw a few portobellas on there, having recently expanded my gastronomical horizons with the reading of Michael Pollan's thoroughly engaging The Omnivore's Dilemma.

So who would I like to gather for a casual meal on my deck?

1. Kathy Bates - Kathy strikes me as a woman who cuts right to the chase. No folderol, no foolishness, no facade. Her new series, Harry's Law, showcases her wit and charm as well as her intolerance for shams and stupidity. I think we could have a serious good time talking about everything from the stupidity of six-inch heels to the unfailing madness of crowds.

2. Red Skelton - A funnier man never lived. Well, maybe Robin Williams, but with Red you get all the hilarity without all the profanity. Plus he was a genuinely nice guy. Nice people who make you laugh make great dinner guests.

3. Rhett Butler - Now here's a man who could liven up a barbecue. Not only would he charm the socks off everybody there, he'd undoubtedly have something in his jacket pocket that would add a little kick to the basting sauce. Smart, sexy, unpredictable and unafraid, there would be no dull moments with this man at the table.

4. Carol Burnett - Another woman who is so comfortable in her own skin that she makes everyone else comfortable, too. Funny, smart, a great teller of anecdotes, but happy to share the spotlight so she wouldn't hog the conversation.

5. Leo Buscaglia - I got to hear Leo speak once--even got to meet him and get one of his famous hugs afterwards. What a dear man! (If you've not read any of his books, you must.) One of those people who can always find something positive, who exults over simple pleasures such as a perfectly ripe tomato or the sweetness of a just-picked ear of corn, Leo's presence at a dinner party would guarantee a good time.

6. Jack Hanna - I got to see Jack Hanna once, too--front row seats. (Not necessarily a good thing when he's carrying a 20 ft. python!) Jack strikes me as a likeable fellow--compassionate, attentive to detail, lots of life experience without the ego you might expect. And you never know what he might have tucked away in his knapsack . . .

7. George and Laura Bush - I know you might not want them at your barbecue, but I think George and Laura are good people and would be great guests. I feel pretty sure George knows his way around a grill and I bet Laura would bring a delicious homemade dessert. I wouldn't have invited them while he was president, but now that they're just hanging out at the ranch, I'd love to chat about about raising cows and writing books and how the world reacts to a Southern drawl.

8. Patti Humphreys - I wasn't done with my precious friend Patti when God called her home a year ago, and I'd give anything to have her back in my kitchen helping me put ice in glasses and pouring up my crowd-pleasing sweet tea. Patti enjoyed a party like nobody else; you could hear her wonderful laugh spilling from every corner. At 75, Patti still possessed the wide-eyed curiosity (and enthusiasm) of a teenager; who doesn't want that in their midst?

9. Tugalo Rogers - My granddaddy died nearly 30 years before I was even thought about it, but I would love to put him in a rocking chair on my deck, then just sit back and listen. A lanky Alabama farmer who worked hard and played harder, I'm told his fiddle-playing and joke-telling made him a welcome guest at many a gathering.

10. Walter and Betsy Cronkite - For starters, Walter always made me think of Captain Kangaroo, whom I adored, plus he seemed like another of those genuinely decent folk who makes you feel good to be around. And any long-time married couple make great company because that shared history lets them finish each other's sentences and benefit from a tag-team approach to conversation. Betsy was a print journalist at one point and, like me, a mother of three, so we'd have plenty to talk about.

None of these people will ever grace my table or eat my husband's delicious grilled specialties, unfortunately, but it's fun to think about, nevertheless. So ponder and then tell me: whom would you like to have over for a cook-out?