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  • Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer!

    2011 - 07.09

    The high here today was 102 with a heat index of 105. But really, once it gets to 100 what difference does it make?

    It makes me think about summers in East Tennessee when I was a little girl. Do you remember getting hot in the summers when you were a kid? I know I got hot, I just don’t remember it. Things I do remember are: keep turning the pillow over to the cool side all night, having no air conditioner, just open windows with screens, lying on a “pallet” on the floor when I had to take a nap because the plastic couch made me sweat and putting my face in front of the box fan making “ooohh eeeww yeeee” noises until Mamaw threatened to get a switch.

    Did you have silly games you played in the summer? Since I was an only child until I was seven, I used my imagination a great deal. One of my favorite things was finding a long, nearly straight tree limb on the ground, getting a long piece of strong thread, tie it to the limb, then take a bobby pin, twist it into a “hook”, and go “fishing.” I’d find a large leaf, put it on the bobby pin, then flip the limb backward, as if I were casting, and let the leaf float to the ground in front of me. Then I’d pretend I was tugging, grunting, and dragged that Jaws-sized monster to “shore”. That was a lot of fun until I discovered that the deep drainage ditch behind our house was filled with water one day and I took my “pole” and “fish” and started casting into that water. I couldn’t swim and had been warned once already. When Mamaw looked out the kitchen window and caught me doing it again, I got my butt busted.

    When the girl next door was home we’d sometimes make mud pies and decorate them with flowers and purple clover. She’d dare me to eat the decorations and, well, I never passed up on a dare! I’d chew them up, open my mouth so she could see the shredded flowers, and she’d get grossed out. It was the highlight of my day.

    I remember walking to what we called “the little dam” with my cousins. It seemed a hundred miles away but was probably only about two miles. That fun came to a screaming halt the hot summer day two of my cousins beat all of us into the water only to scatter many snakes of different sizes, mama and babies.

    Come to think of it, I have an entire book of memories like those! It’s titled Saturday Night Cocoa Fudge and you can find it at http://tinyurl.com/3mqqcae

    Stay cool!

    Happy Independence Day!

    2011 - 07.01


    I am a patriotic soul. Even though it’s not a popular notion with some people right now, I love my country. I think I’m one of the luckiest people alive to have been born and raised in this great country of mine. As Lee Greenwood sang, ♪ I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free and (this is very important) I won’t forget the men who died who gave that right to me

    I’m sure that being raised in the Air Force had something to do with this. But being proud of my heritage was hammered into my head before my mother married the career Air Force man who became the only real father I ever knew. I was born in East Tennessee and I’m just as proud of my state heritage as the country in which she sits.

    Whenever the flag is raised at the high school football game, I tear up and will truly cry out loud if I don’t control myself. Recently I walked around the Oklahoma State building with misty eyes and I spoke with a husky reverence as I took it all in.

    I never take it for granted that blood was shed, lives lost, to give me the freedoms that most take for granted. Sons, daughters, husbands, wives, brothers and sisters will never hold their loved ones again so that the citizens of this country can burn that same flag they died for, so inbred people can protest their funerals, and insult with vitriol the government they served.

    And I might be one of the older Americans, part of the outgoing generation but I strongly proclaim and loudly sing ♪ And I’d gladly stand up, next to you and defend her today. ‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,


    ♪ We are family ♪

    2011 - 06.24


    Cooking, cooking, cooking and then add to that, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. This is my Friday. I’ve invited both sides of our families up for dinner tomorrow. It’s something I haven’t done for awhile because it’s so danged hard to pull together. Reading some of your comments to this blog and what you thought of my book Saturday Night Cocoa Fudge has me reminiscing to the point where I’m doing the joint family thing again.

    We used to do this quite often but then this person said that, that person felt this…and eventually I got hurt, too. Yeah, yeah, I know that happens in families but these are in-laws I’m talking about. The same thing can hurt just as much but be forgiven more easily within your own bloodline. Somehow, when the insult comes from “them”, that “other side of the family”, it seems harsher and lasts longer. I know it’s not nice to hold a grudge but I’ll freely admit I do. But all of us are growing older, faster (it seems) and I’m willing to give it another go.

    So, as I’ve watched my mother in the past, I began cleaning a week early, planning the menu two weeks early, and started cooking at 7 this morning. It’s not that the menu is that huge, and others are bringing side dishes, it’s just that I have more cleaning to do, laundry to finish as I’m cooking. And now I’m more tired than I’ve been in a long time. And speaking of growing older, I have polyarticular pain, so my body’s screaming right about now. I’m glad I’m not as old as I feel or we’d be contacting nursing homes.

    I remember hearing Mamaw mention “hurting so bad” but, bad granddaughter that I was, I didn’t pay much attention. I’m so sorry, Mamaw, I think I might finally be “getting it.” I just wish I’d understood when you were still with me.

    So, back to the cooking and cleaning. May God take pity on me. Heck, since I’ve already got half the state coming, why don’t YOU just come on over, pull up a chair, sit a spell and have a bite? I promise I won’t even complain once if you will!

    If you need something good to read, how about checking out my books and short stories on Amazon? Gloria Teague and GT Everett (my dark side) both have something for everyone!

    Fathers’ Day

    2011 - 06.19

    WordPress has been misbehaving and refusing to work with me.

    Yes I know, I goofed up. I missed my own unofficial Friday deadline. One of the great things about being a full-time writer is not having to punch a time-clock. As long as I fulfill a publisher’s deadline, it doesn’t matter if I do it two weeks early or stay up 48 hours straight and squeak it in just under the line. And one thing’s for sure, I’ve never missed anyone’s deadline in my life. If my blog is a day or so late, no harm, no foul. I don’t think I’m holding up anyone’s life by posting today instead of Friday.

    While it’s on my mind-Happy Father’s Day! I wish I could get into it more than I do but, since my biological father died when I was four, it’s just not been a big holiday in my life. Sorry to be a downer. Okay, so let me go one step further in ruining your mood since I have your attention. Today is my mother’s birthday. She’s been gone for eight years yet, every year, for the week preceding this date, several times I panic and think, “Oh God, what can I get Mom for her birthday?” I’d give anything to have to still worry about that. And because she was mother and father both for most of my life, this weekend is a double-whammy for me.

    Okay, that’s the end of “Pity Party for One”. The sun is shining, I have a great family and already finished cooking breakfast (almost two hours ago) for my husband (steak, eggs, hash browns, biscuits, orange juice and coffee) and the kitchen is clean. As an early gift, I took hubby to the stage play production of “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” at a community theatre last night. Afterward we got an ice cream cone. Very 1950ish, right? What more could I ask for?

    My daughter is taking my husband (her step dad) out for supper tonight and has invited me along. Since we don’t yet know where we’re going, it’s going to be a nice surprise. One of my step-sons called his dad earlier and was getting things together for a barbeque, including steamed clams. What???? This southern girl doesn’t understand steamed claims being part of any barbeque-ever. Oh well, he lives in Jersey-maybe that’s the reason. 

    I don’t remember having special Father Day events as I was growing up, though I may have with my first step-father and just don’t remember them. How about you? Do you have any nice or funny Father Day’s memories to share?

    Here’s my Father’s Day gift to you:

    Father’s Day was near when I brought my three-year-old son, Tyler, to the card store. Inside, I showed him the cards for dads and told him to pick one.

    When I looked back, Tyler was picking up one card after another, opening them up and quickly shoving them back into slots, every which way. “Tyler, what are you doing?” I asked. “Haven’t you found a nice card for Daddy yet?”

    “No,” he replied. “I’m looking for one with money in it.”


    On the day I received my learner’s permit, my father agreed to take me out for a driving lesson. With a big grin, he hopped in behind the driver’s seat. “Why aren’t you sitting up front on the passenger’s side?” I asked.

    “Honey, I’ve been waiting for this ever since you were a little girl,” Dad replied. “Now it’s my turn to sit back here and kick the seat.”


    2011 - 06.10

    Yesterday I was honored to be asked to read a story or two from my book Saturday Night Cocoa Fudge at an adult day care center. I say honored because I was the one that was blessed simply by being with these living chapters of history. After I read the chapter titled “Bitter Lesson”, the director asked if I wanted to read them another story. I said, “How about I ask if anyone wants to tell me a story about being young, in the 30s, 40s or 50s?” Some of them started smiling so to encourage them I said, “Aw c’mon, surely you did something to get in trouble like I did when I was little. I’ll make you a deal; tell us when you did something nice and we’ll smile and act like we believe you.” First they laughed, then they started telling me their stories. Oh, how I wish you could’ve been with me. These beautiful lined faces were wreathed in smiles and they blossomed like a field of flowers. One of the gentlemen told me two stories. One was about being a little boy who attended the funeral of Pretty Boy Floyd. He told me about the beautiful suits the men wore, the handsome fedoras sitting jauntily on their heads. He talked about the big black cars lined up; men still inside them, and everyone knew they were federal agents. Wow, can you imagine?

    He also told me another story that lightened the mood and I welcomed it. He told me about making molasses with his daddy. He said he had to work with the sugar cane and then boil it. (I’m sorry to say I didn’t catch everything he said because a lady kept coming up to me with an adult diaper in her hand. I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to change her or put the diaper on myself.) While it was boiling, he had to skim something off the top and every night he’d give it their 400 pound hog. Man, that was a big ‘un!  “One day it was really hot and that stuff I skimmed off sat in the hot sun all day and fermented! So I gave it to that hog that night and…well missy, have you ever seen a drunk 400 pound hog?” I said, “I think I was married to him once.” They laughed so hard two of them started coughing so hard they lost their dentures.

    I wouldn’t have missed that day for anything. It was truly one of the best days of my life and I can hardly wait to go back.

    Summertime and the living is easy

    2011 - 06.03

      Whew, summer just sent an advance notice of her impending arrival. And humid-La’ ha’ mercy! Reminds me of chasing lighting bugs (you might call them fireflies), putting them in a jar with a lid filled with holes so they wouldn’t suffocate, grass in the bottom for food. I don’t know why I thought lightning bugs ate grass. I suppose it seemed logical since they lived outside and I felt they had to eat something.

    If my cousins were visiting, after we caught a blue million of the pulsating little critters, I’d take the bug lamp to the darkest corner of the yard and gather the others for a story. With my clothes stuck to my damp skin, sweat seeping from every pore, I was uncomfortable enough to come up with some creepy stories. My only goal was to make at least, the very least, one cousin squeal in fright by the end of the story. If I was lucky, one of them would get mad because I’d scared him so bad. If the planets were in proper alignment I’d scare one of them so bad he’d run crying to his mommy. Even being scolded by an aunt didn’t dissuade me from trying to replicate that fear in another person the rest of my life. If you notice, I used the pronoun “him”; all my cousins near my age were boys and believe me, they tormented me every chance they got. That’s what made the revenge of his wet pants and crying all the way home so rewarding.

    Fast-forward a decade and hot, sultry nights when the air is so thick you can taste it on your tongue, the smell of honeysuckle drifts by with every small breeze and the leather of the car seat again sticks to my skin. The windows are open, the radio is playing and Jimmy Ruffin’s asking me what becomes of the broken hearted. The boy behind the steering wheel is talking but all I hear is the song of the crickets being accompanied by the frogs. Nothing else can compare.

    Then too, I was imagining some ferocious creature lurching toward the car and would soon swear I heard a hook being dragged along the back of the car.

    I lost of lot of boyfriends that way. <shrug>

    Decoration Day

    2011 - 05.26

      When I was a little girl, back in the 19mublemuble, I knew it only as Decoration Day. I know it was declared Memorial Day, a day to remember those fallen in service to our country. By then I was a teenager (oops, almost gave my age away!) but our family had been decorating the graves of our loved ones, service members or not, for what seemed to be all my life. It was a big deal, right up there with Thanksgiving and Christmas.

    “Who all is coming in this year for Decoration Day?” (This always has sounded odd to me; “coming in” denotes that someone has been “out” and I never felt that way about anyone in my family. I know they were asking who would be traveling back “home” for the weekend, but still…) Most years everyone in the family, living that is, went to the family plot to visit the others, dead that is. All the ones we visited had been dressed in their very best to meet our Maker so we always dressed in our best to visit their final resting place on earth. We’d go from grave to grave, communing with the one resting there, some verbally, some mentally, but all emotionally. No matter how hot the sun felt on our heads, or how rain saturated our hair, we felt our duty, the very least we could offer them for all they’d given to us.

    The more members we lost from our family circle, the less strictly we adhered to the annual pilgrimage. Because I moved to another state nearly 25 years ago I don’t know if anyone left in my family decorates the graves this time every year. My grandmother and mother’s generations are gone, the oldest living generation is mine (what?? How the world did that happen?) and we’re not close as we were as children. We grew up, had our own families, fighting to pay the bills, you know how that goes. Life just gets in the way.

    My maternal limb of the family tree rests beneath a shady oak in a quiet spot not far from me; enabling me to go sit and chat with her any time I wish. As for the rest, every time I go home to East Tennessee, I put aside a large part of one day to spend with them. Mamaw was especially fond of Pool Room (not the actual name but it’s what we called it) hot dogs and a cold RC Cola. When I go for my visitation with Mamaw, I take one of those hot dogs, an RC, and sit right down to have a picnic with her. Nope, it’s not on Decoration Day, but it’s my personal way to honor her, to remind her, and Papaw, and Ruby, and Ronnie, and Charlene that all rest near her, that they’re never forgotten. I tell them that through the bad times and the good, the shining moments and horrendous mistakes, I love them still. They are what made me, me, and for what that’s worth, I’m grateful.

    And to those that gave the ultimate sacrifice for my freedom, and those who came back home forever changed due to a war on foreign land, I offer you the only thing I have, the very least I can say: Thank You and may God bless.

    Sneaky child!

    2011 - 05.20

    I’m going to try very hard to be a good girl and post to my blog every Friday. I suppose the word “girl” is inappropriate since I’m now so old I may forget to write the actual blog. <sigh>

    I spent part of this last week editing, creating covers, then posting some of my short stories to Kindle. Time-consuming, at times irritating but worth it after it was done. But isn’t that true of just about everything we do in life?

    Chatting with some of the people that bought those stories, I was reminded again of childhood memories. I don’t know, maybe I linger in the past too much. Oh well, it’s my imagination and I’ll play in it if I want to, right?

    One of my readers, and I won’t mention any names (cough…Beth…cough) told me about an Easter from her childhood. Should be a sweet memory, huh? Ah, but you don’t know Beth. You know, I’ll let her tell you in her own words!

        It was two days after my fifth Easter when our phone rang early that morning. It was Mrs. Erwin calling to ask my mother if I was sick. My mother responded no and inquired why this early call regarding my health and well being. Mrs. Erwin explained that out of four of her five children had experienced the most horrible case of diarrhea, the whole prior night, except for the infant. Mother said she was so sorry to hear of the children’s affliction but, no, I was fine. Mother began fixing my breakfast when the phone rang again and it was Mrs. Nelson inquiring of my health and after mother said I was fine. Mrs. Nelson said that her little Sammy had been up with a most terrible case of diarrhea and she was concerned about me when she remembered that looking out her kitchen window and seeing Sammy, the four Erwin children, and myself all sitting under the tree eating out of our Easter Baskets. As Mrs. Nelson finished her story she said that by the way, she thought Beth looked so cute walking around the yard with her little sun-suit on and that pretty little blue Easter purse hanging around my arm. My mother thanked her and hung up, finishing my breakfast. That’s when my mother, the valedictorian of the class of 1945, a pretty smart lady, began to investigate why all the children I had played with the day before had come down with horrible diarrhea all night long and I hadn’t. She began with my Easter basket, nothing afoul there. Then she saw the cute little blue Easter purse Mrs. Nelson had spoken of on the phone. When she opened it she immediately was able to put two and two together. There in the bottom of the little purse was an aluminum wrapper with a lone small square of what looked like chocolate but with further investigation, turned out to be not chocolate candy but Ex-Lax. My mother being way too moral and honest for my own sake, made the phone calls to Mrs. Erwin and Mrs. Nelson to inform them their children did not have a childhood dreaded disease, they were just experiencing the effects of being fed Ex-Lax. She insisted that her sweet little daughter surely didn’t know what she was doing by feeding her little neighbor friends, that were always being mean to her, a whole box of Ex-Lax. And it was just added bad luck that it followed the day after those same kids’ tummies were stuffed full of hard boiled Easter eggs and all the Easter candy that could consume….or did she?! 

    So if know Beth and she offers you chocolate, run to the bathroom!

    Do you remember this?

    2011 - 05.14

    This is my first blog entry this century. Okay, that’s a teensy bit of exaggeration but I’m a fiction writer (as well as nonfiction) and we do that. I tell people I’m lucky because I get paid to lie. Since I don’t know what the cool kids are blogging about right now, what’s new and hip, I’m just going to write what crosses my mind. Gosh, I feel sorry for you right about now.

    I was chatting with someone on Facebook earlier (yep, I’m on there so go look me up and for the sake of my pride, “FRIEND” me!!) and the conversation meandered into the past. Now, the past has been good to me, in many ways; one of those being the subject of my book, Saturday Night Cocoa Fudge, a book about a child of the 50s living in the south. I’ve even gotten great reviews so it must be okay. But it led me to a story from my life, about a hundred years ago (remember I lie now), about being a little girl and watching my favorite show. (I lied about it being 100 years ago but the truth is, I DID watch the show and I was, in fact, a little girl.) Bet you figure out what the show was as you read this. If you don’t, you’re too young to “get it”, anyway.  So-read on!

    Mirror, Mirror

     “Hurry, Mamaw, hurry!  My show’s coming on and I have to watch it!”

     I wondered if her nose itched when I saw the corners of her mouth twitching.  “You won’t be able to watch it if you choke to death on that sandwich!  Slow down; you have plenty of time.”

    “No I don’t!  You just don’t understand, Mamaw!  I hafta be there in case she says my name today!  We sent her that letter, ‘member?”

     Because Mamaw had turned on the TV to let it warm up, I could hear the opening strands of “Pop Goes the Weasel”.  It sounded like a heavenly orchestral movement to my five year old ears.

      “Aw Mamaw…”

    “Okay, just this once, you can take your sandwich…  Slow down!”

    I slid across the cabbage rose linoleum, skating to a halt two feet from the TV.  Without breaking stride I transferred my sandwich to my left hand, threw my right hand across my heart and repeated the rhythmic cadence.  “I pledge allegiance to the flag…”

    This had been a summer-long dream of mine: getting Miss Kathy to finally see me in my own living room, politely as Do Bee warned, watching the show.  I was loyal, never missed an episode, and stood ever so close to the television each day so I could hear her say the names of those good children she could see through her magic mirror.

    “Do Bee wants us to put on our wings and fly all around the classroom.  Fly, fly, all around the sky!  What did you say, Bobby?  Oh yes, I see those birds up there.”

    Stupid Bobby; even I knew they wouldn’t let birds fly around Romper Room.

    “Now class, let’s pick up our balance sticks and chase those dark clouds away!  Come on, help me sing!  ‘Bend and stretch, reach for the stars, there goes Jupiter, here comes Mars.  Bend and stretch, reach for the sky, stand on tippy-toes oh so high’ …oh, there they go!  Maybe the sun and wind will help us just push those heavy clouds away. Do you think we chased the rain away?  Yes, I do, too.”

    The last two months had been hard ones for me.  Not yet knowing how to tell time I had to suffer through hearing Mamaw sigh about a hundred times a day when I asked what the clock said.  She wasn’t even funny when she told me, “The clock said for you to go outside and play.”  Then I had to exercise every day with Miss Kathy because I didn’t want her to think I was a Don’t Bee.  I’d even had to learn the pledge of allegiance, whatever that was.  I knew there were a lot of kids that watched the show but I just knew Miss Kathy would see me in my living room because I had long red hair.  Mommy said everyone noticed my red hair.

    One day I’d tried to increase my chances of Miss Kathy seeing me by jumping up and down in front of the TV, singing as loudly as I possibly could, waving both my arms over my head, but only when Miss Kathy wasn’t talking because I didn’t want Mr. Do Bee to think I had bad manners.  It made no difference other than Mamaw coming in the room to stand over me with her hands on her hips, with a deep line between her eyebrows.

    I was reduced to taking the next step: bribing Miss Kathy.  It wasn’t nice; it wasn’t something I was proud of, but as Mamaw told Mommy, “Sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures.”  Though she was talking about Mommy finding me a daddy since mine had died, I thought it would apply to the Miss Kathy problem.

    “Mamaw, I need your help.”

    “What is it, honey?  You know I’ll do whatever I can.”

    “Well, I believe it’s them desperate times you been talking about so I got a desperate plan.  I don’t know if Miss Kathy is paying attention or not, but I gotta do something to get her to see me in that magic mirror of hers.  Now, I don’t know if anybody else has thought of this, but I saved up a dime and I want to send it to her.”

    “And you think that’ll make her notice you, do you?”

    I nodded my head.  “Yep, I’ve give it a lot of thinking and I believe that’s what I need to do.”

    “Okay sugar, that’s what we’ll do then.  But why don’t we just send a nickel and you can get a candy bar with the other five cents.”

    “Well, if you think a nickel’s enough…”

    That had been two weeks ago and each day that went by, the more sure I was that I should’ve just skipped that Reece’s peanut butter cup.

    I’d sat down to rest a minute in Mamaw’s rocking chair when I heard those words, those wonderful yet dreaded words.  I jumped from the chair and stood so close to the TV I could feel the static from the screen.  Maybe today…

    “Romper, bomper, stomper boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me, do. Magic mirror, tell me today. Have all my friends had fun at play? I can see Earl and Cindy and Patricia and Libby and Susan and…”

     This is it, I just know it!  C’mon, come on, Miss Kathy, just say it one time!

                “… and I see Gloria!”

    The world came to a screeching halt.  It had to have at least tilted on its axis.  Something this monumental, something so extraordinary that my heart skipped a beat and my breath was captured in my throat had to have a huge impact that the rest of the world could feel.  I slid to the floor and Mamaw, who had been standing in the doorway, rushed over to me.

    “Honey, are you alright?”

    “Lord ha’ mercy, Mamaw!  Miss Kathy saw me, she really saw me.”

    Mamaw reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a nickel then put it in my hand.  “Yes sweetheart, she really did see you.  We plain forgot to mail that letter so I just got the money out of it to give back to you.  Now you know Miss Kathy really did see you today.  It just took awhile, honey, because of all those other kids that are bigger than you.  You’re so little she couldn’t see you standing behind them.”

    “Oh Mamaw, just wait until I tell my cousins about this.  Won’t they be sorry they told me that Miss Kathy couldn’t see me?”

    “Oh, they surely will be sorry.  Now, how about we walk to the store and get us a Reece’s peanut butter cup?”

    Miss Kathy had seen me, said my name on TV and I didn’t even have to pay her.  Yeah, life was good.

     Want to read more like this? Saturday Night Cocoa Fudge is available in print and Kindle http://tinyurl.com/3zxqnn9

    If you’re more interested in reading stories about people that were hovering at the edge of death and only a miracle could save them, Beyond the Surgeon’s Touch-One Miracle Away from Death, is filled with true stories.  http://tinyurl.com/3ngtpgm 

    And visit my home page, maybe even leave a comment in the guest book? 

    Thank you for spending time with me. I hope I made you smile.

    Gloria Teague’s World

    2010 - 08.28
    Look at the world through my eyes

    The World According to Gloria

    As a little red-haired girl I discovered that I lived in what was to become known as “The Zone”, a place never to singularly hear the voice of Rod Serling, see the profile of Alfred Hitchcock, or feel the jet-stream of a passing super hero, but a cacophonic blend of all of those. In “The Zone” I sang with Alvin and the other Chipmunks, rode with the Lone Ranger on my trusty stick horse, and wore my mother’s voluminous half slip on my head, visualizing it as long golden tresses sure to capture the eye and heart of my prince.  I was born in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains into the most wondrous, crazy family ever to bless a child.  My family told me that my imagination could be my best friend.  I’ve never had any reason to dispute that since it’s helped me to cope with life’s bumps and bruises. It’s even boosted my checking account a few times.

    This life started out in LaFollette, Tennessee (go Owls! Hooot Hoooot!) where I lived until I was six.  I was then launched into the life as an Air Force dependent.  Spending time in my hometown during summers and between tours of duty kept my toe in the southern waters of my home state.

    My lifelong love affair with lying, uh, writing began early.  I not only walked around with my head in the imaginative clouds but I orchestrated the catching of fire flies (or lightening bugs), putting them in a ventilated jar, then gathered my cousins and friends around so I could make up the scariest stories I could come up with. Only when the youngest or weakest were crying or running into the house screaming was I satisfied with my storytelling abilities.

    While living in France, at the age of 12, my first lucrative opportunity to write was presented. There was a European-wide essay and the subject was to be about “Law Day”, something patriotic and inspiring.  There was to be only ten winners and I was one of them.  The grand prize was spending a day in a local courtroom in whichever country the winner lived in.  Though my French at that time was very limited, I thoroughly enjoyed the verbal sparring in the court. Lunch was part of the prize, spent at a lovely outdoor café. While lying in bed that night, I had an epiphany. “I dream up something, put words on paper and if someone likes them, I get rewarded for doing what I would gladly do for free.”  A writer was born! Of course now that I’m older, I realize “free” isn’t as appealing as a check in hand.

    I’ve won various awards in writing competitions and a few of those winning stories were from Saturday Night Cocoa Fudge.

    It is my pleasure to be a member of Tulsa Nightwriters and have the honor of being the editor of NightScripts, the organization’s newsletter.  I’m also a member of Oklahoma Writers’ Federation, Inc. (OWFI).

    I have two daughters and live on lovely Lake Keystone in Oklahoma with a confused but accepting husband, a very spoiled Boston terrier named Tiger and a Pom named Barkley.