Michael Franzese, former mob boss of the Colombo crime family is coming to Lakeville, Minnesota to share his powerful testimony at our church, Saturday, October 30th at 7 PM and Sunday, October 31st at 9 & 10:30 AM; Trinity Evangelical Free Church, 10658 210th St. W., Lakeville, MN. A gifted speaker, Michael discloses the details of his life-changing conversion from a man with a past to a man with hope for the future. You won't want to miss this dramatic true story of God's transformational power.
THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE FORGIVEN...
MICHAEL FRANZESE
Michael grew up as the son of the notorious Underboss of New York's violent and feared Colombo crime family. Intelligent, handsome and ambitious he quickly rose within the ranks of organized crime. It was a life filled with power, luxury...and deadly violence. Then an innocent young woman walked into Michael's life. Her beauty captivated him. Her faith in God saved him. It's a story with a powerful lesson: Nothing is too bad that it can't be forgiven--life can begin again.
Michael's compelling story has been featured on high profile media including FOX News, Life Magazine, Fortune Magazine, Sports Illustrated, LA Times, 48 Hours, The Today Show, ABC Primetime, NBC Nightly News, and ESPN.
Michael documented his dramatic life story in a biography: Blood Covenant: The Michael Franzese Story. To find out more about him, check out his website at http://www.michaelfranzese.com/.
The hubby and I are on the committee to help coordinate and promote the event, but our biggest test will come when we try to cook an Italian dinner for Michael and his traveling companion. It's going to be a group effort...we have Italian friends who will make the sauce, we have a recipe for spicy Italian meatballs, and the hubby makes bruschetta that's out of this world, seriously. And just for fun, we'll throw in a casserole of Tator Tot or Wild Rice hotdish for him to try...something pure Minnesotan!
All kidding aside, this looks to be a remarkable evening with Michael. We are looking forward to hearing his amazing testimony and if anyone is anywhere close to Lakeville, Saturday-October 30th or Sunday-October 31st, we invite you to join us!
Barbara & Hubby, a/k/a, the Italian chef!
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Women Writing the West
Howdy! I can use that greeting again--even though I'm not in Wyoming--because I am officially now a member of WOMEN WRITING THE WEST. I may not live in The West (yet!), but I live west of the Mississippi, which will have to do for now. As their welcome letter states, "Women Writing the West is a dynamic group of individuals who write, edit, publish, and produce the western women's experience is an association with which to be reckoned." This is an organization I found out about back in May from Kaye Roll, one of the ladies I met at the Literature & Landscape of the Horse Retreat in Wyoming.
Over the summer I browsed through their website a few times, and somehow stumbled onto a website for Moonlight Mesa Associates, a small publisher in Arizona that happened to be sponsoring a short story contest. It was their 2nd annual "Cowboy Up Contest!" and the criteria included:
Two seconds later I turned back to my desk and spied the list of article ideas from Paul LaRoche for the RFD-TV Magazine. Starting this spring, the editor of RFD-TV had asked Paul to submit a short article for each issue. Since Paul's talents are primarily in music, he asked for a little help. He sent me a list of ideas and I write the articles. I had just finished, "Lost Letters", a short piece about Paul's adoption papers being lost in his mother's writing desk for years. And then the light bulb went off...
Duh! Take the title of any one of these articles and write a completely fictionalized story to match!
So that's exactly what I did...I started a brand new version of "Lost Letters." I wrote the first draft and took it with me to the Black Hills for our annual camping trip. We stayed in a different campground this year, one surrounded by a forest of tall Ponderosa pines. Each morning I heard the wind whisper through pine needles. The beauty of the dark green needles contrasted against the bold blue sky stunned me each day. Slowly I started putting the pieces of my story together, defining my characters. Throughout the week the setting all around contributed to my story in scattered moments. Pink patches of clover, granite spires, sunlight casting lace patterns on the ground below, distinct scents of clover and pine. I scribbled down notes, thoughts, images.
After we returned home I finished my story and sent it off to the contest, not really sure if it met the style of the western genre but deciding either way it was good writing practice. Then last week I received word that "Lost Letters" is a Finalist (how 'bout a yahoo!) in the contest and Moonlight Mesa Associates announced plans to publish an anthology in 2011 titled "Award-Winning Western Tales" with selected stories from the contest. I'll find out next week if "Lost Letters" is one of the top three winners, but right now I'm just tickled it placed as a Finalist.
In my eyes, Women Writing the West opens a window to a whole new world of writing possibilities!
To learn more about Women Writing the West, go to http://www.womenwritingthewest.org/
And to learn more about Moonlight Mesa Associates, go to http://www.moonlightmesaassociates.com/
Blessings to writers, western and otherwise!
Barbara
Over the summer I browsed through their website a few times, and somehow stumbled onto a website for Moonlight Mesa Associates, a small publisher in Arizona that happened to be sponsoring a short story contest. It was their 2nd annual "Cowboy Up Contest!" and the criteria included:
- western theme,
- 3,000 words max,
- must involve a cowboy or two--or other western character(s).
Two seconds later I turned back to my desk and spied the list of article ideas from Paul LaRoche for the RFD-TV Magazine. Starting this spring, the editor of RFD-TV had asked Paul to submit a short article for each issue. Since Paul's talents are primarily in music, he asked for a little help. He sent me a list of ideas and I write the articles. I had just finished, "Lost Letters", a short piece about Paul's adoption papers being lost in his mother's writing desk for years. And then the light bulb went off...
Duh! Take the title of any one of these articles and write a completely fictionalized story to match!
So that's exactly what I did...I started a brand new version of "Lost Letters." I wrote the first draft and took it with me to the Black Hills for our annual camping trip. We stayed in a different campground this year, one surrounded by a forest of tall Ponderosa pines. Each morning I heard the wind whisper through pine needles. The beauty of the dark green needles contrasted against the bold blue sky stunned me each day. Slowly I started putting the pieces of my story together, defining my characters. Throughout the week the setting all around contributed to my story in scattered moments. Pink patches of clover, granite spires, sunlight casting lace patterns on the ground below, distinct scents of clover and pine. I scribbled down notes, thoughts, images.
After we returned home I finished my story and sent it off to the contest, not really sure if it met the style of the western genre but deciding either way it was good writing practice. Then last week I received word that "Lost Letters" is a Finalist (how 'bout a yahoo!) in the contest and Moonlight Mesa Associates announced plans to publish an anthology in 2011 titled "Award-Winning Western Tales" with selected stories from the contest. I'll find out next week if "Lost Letters" is one of the top three winners, but right now I'm just tickled it placed as a Finalist.
In my eyes, Women Writing the West opens a window to a whole new world of writing possibilities!
To learn more about Women Writing the West, go to http://www.womenwritingthewest.org/
And to learn more about Moonlight Mesa Associates, go to http://www.moonlightmesaassociates.com/
Blessings to writers, western and otherwise!
Barbara
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Prairie Promises
Here's my winning entry, Prairie Promises, based on an actual event from 1870 when my great-grandparents lived in a small cabin on the shore of Horse Head Lake near Parkers Paririe in Otter Tail County. Notes from our family history show that Charls and Carolina Veden had staked a claim on eighty acres, across the lake from another family whose short time as settlers on the Minnesota prairie ended in tragedy that winter...
Prairie Promises
A strange noise stirs me, but my bones are simply too tired to move. I drift back to my dream…I am still in Sweden and we have yet to make our long journey to America. Elot is sitting beside me, holding my hand in his, My sweet Corena, we will have a wonderful life in America, I promise. Here we have no hope. In America there is so much land, even a poor soul like myself can own his own farm…
The crackling sounds come again. Our cabin creaks routinely as it settles, especially on such cold winter nights. The grand white farmhouse with a pillared front porch that Elot promised is for now a primitive cabin. We have cupboards for a kitchen, a private room for Elot and I, and a loft for the older children. I sense Elot turning over and his movements awaken me further. No doubt it is time to add wood to the stove. The past seven days have been colder than I thought possible, even living in Sweden. It’s our first winter at Horse Head Lake and min godhet, we burn wood nonstop, day and night.
A waft of smoke strikes my nose and I sniff. Smoke.
In an instant my eyes open, senses alert. I sit up in bed. “Elot!” I grab his shoulders and shake hard. “There’s smoke!”
“Ja? Vad är det?”
“I smell smoke, Elot! Hurry!” My bare feet hit the floorboards and I turn to the cradle next to our bed. I snatch Sadie into my arms and grab her blanket. Elot opens the bedroom door and a thunderous burst of brightness fills my view. Orange and yellow flames dance across the width of the cabin, blocking the cupboards and only door. The log wall behind the stove is engulfed in a fiery glow that roars back with danger.
I cling to the bedroom doorway, shaking, protectively pressing Sadie’s face into my bosom. Elot rushes to the ladder and scrambles halfway up. “Hans! Louisa! Wake up!”
The terror in his voice pierces my eardrums, sending me into a panic. The heat is intense, tall flames pulsate in rapid, rhythmic motions forming a barricade to our only way out. “Elot! What do we do?!”
Hans and Louisa climb down the ladder and stand behind Elot. “Pa!” Hans cries. “How do we get out?”
Stricken with fear Louisa’s cries turn to screams, her blue eyes glisten with tears.
“We have to run through the flames to the door,” Elot shouts. “It’s the only way!”
“No!” screams Louisa. “No! I can’t!”
“We can’t wait, it’s too late…” Elot says, watching the fire consume our handbuilt home.
The baby wakes, and sensing danger begins to cry. “Shhh,” I say between sobs, trying to calm her when I know the logs are too thick…the few windows too small.
Elot’s whiskered face is covered in sweat and fear. He looks much older than his thirty-three years. “I’ll take Hans and Louisa through first,” he says, “and then I’ll come back for you and the baby.”
Louisa clings to Elot, all the while screaming, “No, Pa!” Nine-year-old Hans tries to be brave, but the raging fire is too intense and all I see is my frightened little boy.
“Give me the quilt,” Elot shouts between coughs.
I reach for the wool quilt on our bed. Ma gave it to us the day we said our vows, May 1, 1861. Elot puts it around them, Hans on one side, Louisa on the other. “We must go quickly,” he shouts above the fire. “Now!”
Barefoot they race into the flames. I cover my face, unable to watch. Sobs overtake me as I clutch the doorframe. Seconds later Elot is at my side, the handstitched quilt singed black. “Corena!” He grabs my arm and throws the quilt over us. “Now!”
Elot leads me forward. The heat is powerful. Instinctively I pull back. “Hold your breath!” Elot puts one arm behind me and pushes. The floorboards burn my feet. I can’t hold my breath and smoke fills my lungs. I cough, blinded from the heavy quilt, burning now on top of us. Elot pushes me again and I collapse into the snow next to Hans and Louisa. The burnt remnants of our wedding quilt hisses against the snowbank.
Icy air fills my lungs, stinging deep inside my chest. I turn to the children, crying and shaking in the frigid night air. Elot falls to his knees, gasping for breath between gut-wrenching coughs.
“What do we do, Elot?” I ask, watching our dreams vanish into billowing smoke. All our possessions are inside, everything we lovingly carried with us to America.
“We must…walk to…Charls and Carolina…the lake.”
“Across the lake? We are barefoot!” I say. “The snow is too deep. My feet have burns.”
“We will freeze, Corena, we must get help.” Elot struggles to stand. “Hans, Louisa, come. We must walk to Vedens, across the lake. Carolina will have the stove going…warm quilts for us. Hurry now.”
Elot takes a few steps toward the lake. He cries out in pain and leans into a tree for support.
“Elot, what’s wrong?”
He turns away from the children. “My feet…are burned too.”
Light from the fire show the blisters on Elot’s feet and my gut wrenches. I try to calm the children. “Listen, listen…Pa will lead the way for us. Hans, you follow and hold Louisa’s hand. I will be right behind you. Go now, follow Papa.”
Moonlight illuminates the surrounding prairie in a bluish haze. We near the shoreline where the lake has frozen and thawed and then froze again. Jagged shards of ice cut my tender flesh. Snowdrifts rise and fall like white ribbons. Beneath us the ice creaks in an eerie moan, momentarily halting the children’s wimpers. In the distance a wolf howls, followed by the rushing wind across the open lake.
Sadie fights me, wanting down. It takes all my strength to keep her in my arms. Louisa’s shawl slips from her shoulders and I pull it up. Our thin cotton gowns are no match for the frigid January night.
The lake is long and narrow. We cross where it is the shortest distance, yet on this night it seems too far. I look back, the glow visible through the trees. Above us, heaven’s stars hang in intricate lace patterns. I can no longer feel my feet or legs. Each step is difficult, laborious. Panting and breathless, the children fall and I help them up. Elot can barely walk. I can make out the darkened shape of the Veden cabin, see the smoke coming from their chimney.
One more step, Corena.
Keep going.
My mind plays tricks on me. I realize now Louisa and Hans are helping Elot. He cannot walk on his own. We reach the shore and struggle to climb over the piles of snow.
“Louisa, run to the cabin for help! Hans, help Papa!” I try to shout, but the words float softly from my throat.
Soon I hear voices. “Ǻ kär Gud i himmel!” Oh, dear God in heaven!
Ah, our Swedish friend, Charls Veden. We are saved.
* * *
I think of the pretty flowers that filled the wild prairie our first summer at Horse Head Lake. Elot was so proud to own land. Eighty acres, he said to me, just like I promised. He took me to the site he’d chosen for our cabin. Already a new life was fashioning within me. I picked a handful of flowers; purple ones, others pale pink, tall yellow ones, like droplets of sunshine, imagining our life in this land called Min-ne-sota. Elot cut the thickest trees to use for the logs, to keep us warm in the harsh winter, he said. We stayed with Elot’s cousin Josephine in Parkers Prairie until our cabin was built. A difficult woman at best, she bossed me around like a servant. At first I was afraid to move to the wilderness. I heard stories of Indians attacking settlers and the great uprising in ’62. But after a summer living under Josephine’s thumb, Elot couldn’t finish the cabin soon enough.
Elot…
My own cries wake me. Elot passed first. Charls hitched up his team and went to town to fetch Doc Hanson but it was too late. The gangrene set in and there was no chance. Charls crossed the lake the morning after the fire. In hushed voices I heard him say he followed a trail of flesh the whole way.
Hans and Louisa lay still in the other bed. The doctor says their suffering is nearly over. Charls will make the coffins. Only little Sadie will live to see spring come. I hear her bubbly laugh with Carolina in the rocker. So young, so innocent. A midwife, Carolina came for the birthing. She will care for Sadie until my sister comes. Until the wild flowers fill the prairie once again.
* * *
I remember going with my parents to visit the Veden homestead on Horse Head Lake as a young girl, and hearing the story that day, how my great-grandfather Veden had to build all the coffins for the family. Even then, as a young girl I tried to imagine what it must have been like to walk across the frozen lake after escaping the fire, barefoot, in the darkness of a winter night, wearing only thin night clothes. Had the husband promised the wife a better life if she came with him to America?
As with most immigrants, they came despite the many dangers...
Prairie Promises
A strange noise stirs me, but my bones are simply too tired to move. I drift back to my dream…I am still in Sweden and we have yet to make our long journey to America. Elot is sitting beside me, holding my hand in his, My sweet Corena, we will have a wonderful life in America, I promise. Here we have no hope. In America there is so much land, even a poor soul like myself can own his own farm…
The crackling sounds come again. Our cabin creaks routinely as it settles, especially on such cold winter nights. The grand white farmhouse with a pillared front porch that Elot promised is for now a primitive cabin. We have cupboards for a kitchen, a private room for Elot and I, and a loft for the older children. I sense Elot turning over and his movements awaken me further. No doubt it is time to add wood to the stove. The past seven days have been colder than I thought possible, even living in Sweden. It’s our first winter at Horse Head Lake and min godhet, we burn wood nonstop, day and night.
A waft of smoke strikes my nose and I sniff. Smoke.
In an instant my eyes open, senses alert. I sit up in bed. “Elot!” I grab his shoulders and shake hard. “There’s smoke!”
“Ja? Vad är det?”
“I smell smoke, Elot! Hurry!” My bare feet hit the floorboards and I turn to the cradle next to our bed. I snatch Sadie into my arms and grab her blanket. Elot opens the bedroom door and a thunderous burst of brightness fills my view. Orange and yellow flames dance across the width of the cabin, blocking the cupboards and only door. The log wall behind the stove is engulfed in a fiery glow that roars back with danger.
I cling to the bedroom doorway, shaking, protectively pressing Sadie’s face into my bosom. Elot rushes to the ladder and scrambles halfway up. “Hans! Louisa! Wake up!”
The terror in his voice pierces my eardrums, sending me into a panic. The heat is intense, tall flames pulsate in rapid, rhythmic motions forming a barricade to our only way out. “Elot! What do we do?!”
Hans and Louisa climb down the ladder and stand behind Elot. “Pa!” Hans cries. “How do we get out?”
Stricken with fear Louisa’s cries turn to screams, her blue eyes glisten with tears.
“We have to run through the flames to the door,” Elot shouts. “It’s the only way!”
“No!” screams Louisa. “No! I can’t!”
“We can’t wait, it’s too late…” Elot says, watching the fire consume our handbuilt home.
The baby wakes, and sensing danger begins to cry. “Shhh,” I say between sobs, trying to calm her when I know the logs are too thick…the few windows too small.
Elot’s whiskered face is covered in sweat and fear. He looks much older than his thirty-three years. “I’ll take Hans and Louisa through first,” he says, “and then I’ll come back for you and the baby.”
Louisa clings to Elot, all the while screaming, “No, Pa!” Nine-year-old Hans tries to be brave, but the raging fire is too intense and all I see is my frightened little boy.
“Give me the quilt,” Elot shouts between coughs.
I reach for the wool quilt on our bed. Ma gave it to us the day we said our vows, May 1, 1861. Elot puts it around them, Hans on one side, Louisa on the other. “We must go quickly,” he shouts above the fire. “Now!”
Barefoot they race into the flames. I cover my face, unable to watch. Sobs overtake me as I clutch the doorframe. Seconds later Elot is at my side, the handstitched quilt singed black. “Corena!” He grabs my arm and throws the quilt over us. “Now!”
Elot leads me forward. The heat is powerful. Instinctively I pull back. “Hold your breath!” Elot puts one arm behind me and pushes. The floorboards burn my feet. I can’t hold my breath and smoke fills my lungs. I cough, blinded from the heavy quilt, burning now on top of us. Elot pushes me again and I collapse into the snow next to Hans and Louisa. The burnt remnants of our wedding quilt hisses against the snowbank.
Icy air fills my lungs, stinging deep inside my chest. I turn to the children, crying and shaking in the frigid night air. Elot falls to his knees, gasping for breath between gut-wrenching coughs.
“What do we do, Elot?” I ask, watching our dreams vanish into billowing smoke. All our possessions are inside, everything we lovingly carried with us to America.
“We must…walk to…Charls and Carolina…the lake.”
“Across the lake? We are barefoot!” I say. “The snow is too deep. My feet have burns.”
“We will freeze, Corena, we must get help.” Elot struggles to stand. “Hans, Louisa, come. We must walk to Vedens, across the lake. Carolina will have the stove going…warm quilts for us. Hurry now.”
Elot takes a few steps toward the lake. He cries out in pain and leans into a tree for support.
“Elot, what’s wrong?”
He turns away from the children. “My feet…are burned too.”
Light from the fire show the blisters on Elot’s feet and my gut wrenches. I try to calm the children. “Listen, listen…Pa will lead the way for us. Hans, you follow and hold Louisa’s hand. I will be right behind you. Go now, follow Papa.”
Moonlight illuminates the surrounding prairie in a bluish haze. We near the shoreline where the lake has frozen and thawed and then froze again. Jagged shards of ice cut my tender flesh. Snowdrifts rise and fall like white ribbons. Beneath us the ice creaks in an eerie moan, momentarily halting the children’s wimpers. In the distance a wolf howls, followed by the rushing wind across the open lake.
Sadie fights me, wanting down. It takes all my strength to keep her in my arms. Louisa’s shawl slips from her shoulders and I pull it up. Our thin cotton gowns are no match for the frigid January night.
The lake is long and narrow. We cross where it is the shortest distance, yet on this night it seems too far. I look back, the glow visible through the trees. Above us, heaven’s stars hang in intricate lace patterns. I can no longer feel my feet or legs. Each step is difficult, laborious. Panting and breathless, the children fall and I help them up. Elot can barely walk. I can make out the darkened shape of the Veden cabin, see the smoke coming from their chimney.
One more step, Corena.
Keep going.
My mind plays tricks on me. I realize now Louisa and Hans are helping Elot. He cannot walk on his own. We reach the shore and struggle to climb over the piles of snow.
“Louisa, run to the cabin for help! Hans, help Papa!” I try to shout, but the words float softly from my throat.
Soon I hear voices. “Ǻ kär Gud i himmel!” Oh, dear God in heaven!
Ah, our Swedish friend, Charls Veden. We are saved.
* * *
I think of the pretty flowers that filled the wild prairie our first summer at Horse Head Lake. Elot was so proud to own land. Eighty acres, he said to me, just like I promised. He took me to the site he’d chosen for our cabin. Already a new life was fashioning within me. I picked a handful of flowers; purple ones, others pale pink, tall yellow ones, like droplets of sunshine, imagining our life in this land called Min-ne-sota. Elot cut the thickest trees to use for the logs, to keep us warm in the harsh winter, he said. We stayed with Elot’s cousin Josephine in Parkers Prairie until our cabin was built. A difficult woman at best, she bossed me around like a servant. At first I was afraid to move to the wilderness. I heard stories of Indians attacking settlers and the great uprising in ’62. But after a summer living under Josephine’s thumb, Elot couldn’t finish the cabin soon enough.
Elot…
My own cries wake me. Elot passed first. Charls hitched up his team and went to town to fetch Doc Hanson but it was too late. The gangrene set in and there was no chance. Charls crossed the lake the morning after the fire. In hushed voices I heard him say he followed a trail of flesh the whole way.
Hans and Louisa lay still in the other bed. The doctor says their suffering is nearly over. Charls will make the coffins. Only little Sadie will live to see spring come. I hear her bubbly laugh with Carolina in the rocker. So young, so innocent. A midwife, Carolina came for the birthing. She will care for Sadie until my sister comes. Until the wild flowers fill the prairie once again.
* * *
I remember going with my parents to visit the Veden homestead on Horse Head Lake as a young girl, and hearing the story that day, how my great-grandfather Veden had to build all the coffins for the family. Even then, as a young girl I tried to imagine what it must have been like to walk across the frozen lake after escaping the fire, barefoot, in the darkness of a winter night, wearing only thin night clothes. Had the husband promised the wife a better life if she came with him to America?
As with most immigrants, they came despite the many dangers...
...and I wonder, would I have had the courage to come, as a young mother with little ones?
Barbara
Jackpine Writers' Book Launch for Talking Stick-Volume 19
This Saturday, September 18th, I had the pleasure of attending the book launch party for the Jackpine Writers' Bloc newest edition of the Talking Stick, a literary journal they publish annually. Each volume is comprised of winning and selected entries from their call for submissions that go out to Minnesota writers each spring. The contest is open to works of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. I am honored to say my short fiction piece, Prairie Promises, took first place in the fiction category, and is featured in the Talking Stick-Volume 19 on Page 5!
The hubby and I drove up to Park Rapids to attend the afternoon party. Surprisingly, there were a number of Twin City writers who had made the drive up to picturesque Park Rapids. It was my first chance to meet members of the Jackpine Writers Bloc and pick up my copy of the Talking Stick. It was also fun to see some familiar faces, such as Candace Simar, Sharon Harris, and Susan Spindler. Susan's piece, A Second One, took first place in the creative nonfiction category. Another writing friend, Barbara Farland, who also has Wadena roots, had her poem Widows' Banquet included. This year's contest had a grand total of 324 submissions from 165 writers all over Minnesota!
Several authors had book tables, and it was fun to mingle and meet new writers, like Nona Carlson, Donna Trump, and Marsha Porter. After a time of refreshments, we were invited to read our published pieces. There is something special in hearing each writer read their own piece. We had a mix of serious and humorous pieces.
If you have time, check out the web pages for the Jackpine Writers Bloc and the Talking Stick:
http://www.jackpinewriters.com/
http://www.thetalkingstick.com/
All in all, it was a great day of building new friendships.
Barbara
The hubby and I drove up to Park Rapids to attend the afternoon party. Surprisingly, there were a number of Twin City writers who had made the drive up to picturesque Park Rapids. It was my first chance to meet members of the Jackpine Writers Bloc and pick up my copy of the Talking Stick. It was also fun to see some familiar faces, such as Candace Simar, Sharon Harris, and Susan Spindler. Susan's piece, A Second One, took first place in the creative nonfiction category. Another writing friend, Barbara Farland, who also has Wadena roots, had her poem Widows' Banquet included. This year's contest had a grand total of 324 submissions from 165 writers all over Minnesota!
Several authors had book tables, and it was fun to mingle and meet new writers, like Nona Carlson, Donna Trump, and Marsha Porter. After a time of refreshments, we were invited to read our published pieces. There is something special in hearing each writer read their own piece. We had a mix of serious and humorous pieces.
 |
| Susan Spindler, reading her winning entry, "A Second One" |
If you have time, check out the web pages for the Jackpine Writers Bloc and the Talking Stick:
http://www.jackpinewriters.com/
http://www.thetalkingstick.com/
All in all, it was a great day of building new friendships.
Barbara
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
On Top of the World Moments
This August the hubby and I joined four other couples on a motorcycle trip across the beautiful expanse of Wyoming. We started in the Black Hills and made a circle tour out to Yellowstone and back. Come to think of it, back in May I spent five days riding horseback near Laramie, and on this trip I rode motorcycle for five days clear across the state. Kind of a contrast in "rides", but both offered stunning views of Wyoming's ever-changing landscape.
We were blessed with perfect weather, beautiful scenery, wonderful food, and a safe journey throughout the entire trip.
Our route started in Hill City, South Dakota and took us up to Sheridan, Wyoming where we spent the first night in a cozy little motel. That evening we walked down to the Main Street Tavern where we listened to Clint, a retired police lieutenant, tell stories from his early days as a cop. By the end of the night our jaws were sore from laughing, and we crawled into our beds tired, but happy.
The next morning we hopped on the bikes and began the climb in elevation as we rode across the Big Horn Mountains, west and north to Red Lodge, Montana, and then south into Wyoming again through the Beartooth Pass.
This stretch of Highway 212 that makes up the Beartooth Pass zig-zags along the edge (and I do mean edge!) of the mountains in Montana and Wyoming at 10,900 feet in elevation with absolute breathtaking views. At the top, the mountain landscape levels off into a wide plateau, with colorful wild flowers at every turn--pinks, reds, yellows, blues, purples--sometimes right next to a patch of snow. In the distance icy mountain lakes reflect the clear blue sky, surrounded by rock-strewn ridges. Part of me wondered if it looked the same as when the mountains were carved during Creation.
It was truly a top-of-the-world moment that took my breath away. (Or was it the Wyoming wind??) As a writer, it made me think about some of my top-of-the-world moments, like having a book signing for Hidden Heritage with Paul LaRoche on the plaza at America's majestic Mount Rushmore National Monument. Or winning a week-long residency at the Devils Tower National Monument. Or completing my first novel, Seeds of Salton. True top-of-the-world moments are rare...but that's what keeps me focused, keeps me motivated to write, until I reach that next 'moment' in my writing journey.
Our stay at the top of the world on the Beartooth Pass was short. We needed to continue on and get to our destination before darkness settled over the mountains. We arrived in Cooke City, Montana, just before dusk and settled into our hotel. Later we walked up the quiet Main Street to the Miners Saloon where we once again ended our day with good food (seriously the best pizza ever!), a glass (or two) of Merlot, and lots of laughs, thankful for another day of safe travels.
So, let me ask you...what are some of your top-of-the-world moments?? Please share!
Barbara
 |
| Western side of Big Horn Mountains |
We were blessed with perfect weather, beautiful scenery, wonderful food, and a safe journey throughout the entire trip.
 |
| Bob & Kay, Clint & Diane, Bob & Judy, Hubby & I, Todd & Char Circle Tour Gang |
The next morning we hopped on the bikes and began the climb in elevation as we rode across the Big Horn Mountains, west and north to Red Lodge, Montana, and then south into Wyoming again through the Beartooth Pass.
This stretch of Highway 212 that makes up the Beartooth Pass zig-zags along the edge (and I do mean edge!) of the mountains in Montana and Wyoming at 10,900 feet in elevation with absolute breathtaking views. At the top, the mountain landscape levels off into a wide plateau, with colorful wild flowers at every turn--pinks, reds, yellows, blues, purples--sometimes right next to a patch of snow. In the distance icy mountain lakes reflect the clear blue sky, surrounded by rock-strewn ridges. Part of me wondered if it looked the same as when the mountains were carved during Creation.
It was truly a top-of-the-world moment that took my breath away. (Or was it the Wyoming wind??) As a writer, it made me think about some of my top-of-the-world moments, like having a book signing for Hidden Heritage with Paul LaRoche on the plaza at America's majestic Mount Rushmore National Monument. Or winning a week-long residency at the Devils Tower National Monument. Or completing my first novel, Seeds of Salton. True top-of-the-world moments are rare...but that's what keeps me focused, keeps me motivated to write, until I reach that next 'moment' in my writing journey.
Our stay at the top of the world on the Beartooth Pass was short. We needed to continue on and get to our destination before darkness settled over the mountains. We arrived in Cooke City, Montana, just before dusk and settled into our hotel. Later we walked up the quiet Main Street to the Miners Saloon where we once again ended our day with good food (seriously the best pizza ever!), a glass (or two) of Merlot, and lots of laughs, thankful for another day of safe travels.
 |
| Cooke City, Montana |
Barbara
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Writers Retreat on Dead Lake
I had the good fortune of being invited back to my writer friend's cabin on Dead Lake. Author Julie Saffrin and her husband have what I consider the "perfect" cabin. Unlike some of the more popular lakes in Minnesota with one cabin about every 20 feet of shoreline, Dead Lake in Otter Tail County has a minimal number of homes even though it is a very large lake.
The weather was perfect each day...beautiful sunshine, warm temps, a nice breeze off the lake. (And let me tell you, "perfect" and "weather" rarely coincide on the same day in Minnesota!) The Saffrin's dock is surrounded by cattails on both sides and there aren't any other cabins or homes visible...which I love. Earlier this year I wrote a historical fiction piece titled, "Cries on the Prairie", about a tragedy in 1870 that actually happened on Horse Head Lake in Otter Tail County.
On Friday afternoon I went down to the dock alone, the cattails were dancing in the wind, I saw several eagles flying overhead, and it made me wonder...is this what it looked liked for my great-grandparents when they homesteaded on Horse Head Lake in 1870? Maybe...maybe not, but it made me feel like I was seeing what they could have seen from their cabin. Goosebumbs...
By the way, I entered "Cries on the Prairie" in the Writer's Digest Short Story Contest, and have another six weeks before I find out if I placed or not.
My real goal in coming to the retreat was to work on Michigan and Rookie...Guardians of the Night, my next book project. I was able to get a lot written for Chapter One, including writing in a dog's POV for the first time ever! Anyway, I needed a quiet place to allow myself to get this book started...and Julie's cabin offered that for me. It's amazing what you can accomplish in a couple days without any interruptions!
Author Joy DeKok joined Julie and I for the weekend. As all writers know, when so much of our time is spent alone, it is all the more rewarding to come together as friends and lift each other up in our writing journeys.
Let me give a plug for both Julie and Joy; please check out both of their websites:
Julie Saffrin, at www.JulieSaffrin.com, author of the forthcoming book, BlessBack, Those Who Shaped Your Life.
Joy Dekok, at http://www.joydekok.com/, author of Rain Dance, Under His Wings, and several children's books.
All for now and blessings to all,
Barbara
The weather was perfect each day...beautiful sunshine, warm temps, a nice breeze off the lake. (And let me tell you, "perfect" and "weather" rarely coincide on the same day in Minnesota!) The Saffrin's dock is surrounded by cattails on both sides and there aren't any other cabins or homes visible...which I love. Earlier this year I wrote a historical fiction piece titled, "Cries on the Prairie", about a tragedy in 1870 that actually happened on Horse Head Lake in Otter Tail County.
On Friday afternoon I went down to the dock alone, the cattails were dancing in the wind, I saw several eagles flying overhead, and it made me wonder...is this what it looked liked for my great-grandparents when they homesteaded on Horse Head Lake in 1870? Maybe...maybe not, but it made me feel like I was seeing what they could have seen from their cabin. Goosebumbs...
By the way, I entered "Cries on the Prairie" in the Writer's Digest Short Story Contest, and have another six weeks before I find out if I placed or not.
My real goal in coming to the retreat was to work on Michigan and Rookie...Guardians of the Night, my next book project. I was able to get a lot written for Chapter One, including writing in a dog's POV for the first time ever! Anyway, I needed a quiet place to allow myself to get this book started...and Julie's cabin offered that for me. It's amazing what you can accomplish in a couple days without any interruptions!
Author Joy DeKok joined Julie and I for the weekend. As all writers know, when so much of our time is spent alone, it is all the more rewarding to come together as friends and lift each other up in our writing journeys.
Let me give a plug for both Julie and Joy; please check out both of their websites:
Julie Saffrin, at www.JulieSaffrin.com, author of the forthcoming book, BlessBack, Those Who Shaped Your Life.
Joy Dekok, at http://www.joydekok.com/, author of Rain Dance, Under His Wings, and several children's books.
All for now and blessings to all,
Barbara
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Sundance, Wyoming...Town of One Author's Dreams
The hubby and I have been spending time in the beautiful Black Hills every summer since 2003 when we stayed in the historic Franklin Hotel, downtown Deadwood. We were there to attend the grand opening of Kevin Costner's Tatanka museum, since Brule' was the guest performer for both day's opening festivities. We followed that visit up the next summer with the Kevin Costner motorcycle ride from Sturgis to Tatanka, and another Brule' concert on the Tatanka property, overlooking the valley below.
Starting in 2005 we found a campground near Hill City, adding another day or two each year to stretch out our visit. One year while studying the map I noticed the hills actually spread a short distance into the eastern edge of Wyoming. The town of Sundance, Wyoming caught my eye.
Sundance...what a cool name! It sounded so cool in fact, I told the hubby we had to check it out that summer.
We hopped on our Harley and took scenic Highway 16 west from Hill City into Wyoming, coming into Sundance from the south on Highway 585. My expectations were high; it was Sundance, after all. Sundance, Wyoming, even. As we drove down Main Street I studied the typical store fronts, and I have to say they looked "ordinary." Honestly, I was a bit disappointed. The hubby turned and said, "This is where you want to live?" I had to admit there was no magical sensation or pounding heartbeat to indicate this was anything other than an average small town, except for that fact Henry Longabaugh, a/k/a the Sundance Kid, did spend time in jail there once, thus the nickname that followed him.
Me and The Kid, July 2010
Downtown Sundance
Barbara Marshak
Author
Sundance, Wyoming
Until that day comes, however, my life is centered in plain ol' Minnesota where the hubby and I have good jobs, a nice home, lots of friends and close family. Yeah, bottom line, I'm pretty lucky to be right where I am.
Barbara
Starting in 2005 we found a campground near Hill City, adding another day or two each year to stretch out our visit. One year while studying the map I noticed the hills actually spread a short distance into the eastern edge of Wyoming. The town of Sundance, Wyoming caught my eye.
Sundance...what a cool name! It sounded so cool in fact, I told the hubby we had to check it out that summer.
We hopped on our Harley and took scenic Highway 16 west from Hill City into Wyoming, coming into Sundance from the south on Highway 585. My expectations were high; it was Sundance, after all. Sundance, Wyoming, even. As we drove down Main Street I studied the typical store fronts, and I have to say they looked "ordinary." Honestly, I was a bit disappointed. The hubby turned and said, "This is where you want to live?" I had to admit there was no magical sensation or pounding heartbeat to indicate this was anything other than an average small town, except for that fact Henry Longabaugh, a/k/a the Sundance Kid, did spend time in jail there once, thus the nickname that followed him.
Me and The Kid, July 2010
Downtown Sundance
The famous Sundance Film Festival, however, is in Utah, where the celebrities and Hollywood types all flock each September. Sounds exciting, but I think I'll stick to "my" Sundance in Wyoming, where my affection has re-blossomed having visited there several times now. Situated at the base of the Bearlodge Mountains, Sundance has a picturesque backdrop that pulls you in and a quaint, western appeal I can't really put into words. My dream is to one day have business cards that say:
Barbara Marshak
Author
Sundance, Wyoming
Until that day comes, however, my life is centered in plain ol' Minnesota where the hubby and I have good jobs, a nice home, lots of friends and close family. Yeah, bottom line, I'm pretty lucky to be right where I am.
Barbara
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