The energy in the vacuous atmosphere is cosmic spit dots, splashing and zapping around Zemirah, pulling and splitting cells into Adam’s temptations. It crept into her vortex like an unwanted salesman beating down the door confusing her treasured peace of mind with too much information. She tried to ignore it asking herself could you leave it where it began or is the real question is, will you leave it behind?”
Zemirah had a full bowl of apples on her wooden farm table inviting her to a light breakfast. She plucked one, in particular, polished it on her shirt till it shined like Christmas then took a crisp bite of crunch -a-luscious, chewing it slowly to express the succulent juice to the far reaches of her tongue.
She looked up and saw through her window perched ever so nimbly on a thin branch was a red cardinal with its beak open beckoning her to listen. Karuna, Karuna he sang as Zemirah stood still hardly breathing so as not to scare him into a feathered fly away.
The breeze waved the Little Pretty Woman Orienpets to dance along to the melody. It is like that to find that just stopping to look around and within will bring one home. The cells of her body began to awaken, polishing each one in a river of oneness throughout her being into a softer harmony. She was carried away uplifted in the auspicious altered state of reverie and began to sing along.
Our perspectives are uniquely attuned to interpretation. We see things differently than others. Our eyes are gathered in potential creation, what if I move this here, color this purple, arrange it a certain way, We are the shifters of form, of statement and speak in our Art expression of a story we want to tell through our piece. This yearning, this sometimes compulsion, makes us all alike. If any united platform that we sublimely share is, the wisdom of knowing that all people are individuals, that there are no groups, no boxes, no generalities or character profiles that anyone has to fall into to make sense of our own world; that’s already understood. We all engage in the creative space. I attribute this understanding to many things, but my authentic understanding of this came from allowing myself to explore a variety of creative forms. I compose, am a songwriter, sing, paint and digital collage, write books with children and for myself, write community art grants and plays. All because it’s fun to explore, to learn something new, and feel my brain light up.
A wandering poem, searching for the right words to tell me about itself is not any different than listening to a person speak. A melody or an image is an outstretched hand just waiting for us to take hold of as we move through the poetic atmospheres, coalescing the vapors, the gold within where everything is connected.
We know that it is interwoven in a language of color and sound. We are simply the weavers, the writers, the interpreters from an already imagined creation.
A simple illustration of how this is can be found in nature. Sunlight streams through clouds and prisms form on walls, even the color palette of primary colors of blending blue and yellow to make green are reflective of our illustration to the universe.
On any given day in every present moment, the winds of imagination co-create a definitive expression not only materially but invisibly in the collective consciousness. We are connected and when we are in the creative space, we are home and it is where we belong. Art and literature are ways to feel connected not only to us but to the world. The process is vibrational and everything done or made creates a transmitting frequency that much like a radio signal is sent out. I love seeing the encouragements fill the pages of blogs and pages on the interment. It reminds me that no matter your style, taste or artistic preference, we understand that this is more than a remark or commentary on a particular piece. It says, I see you and we are kindred spirits. I like what these Artists have to say.
“Art is an avenue to express intense emotions and unwavering wonder.” I’m inspired by the lighter side of life. Through trying times, I have found myself coping through art and through creating things that made me happier. Brighter subjects that brought me back to life. Now, through my work, I hope to be able to do that for others. I want the viewer to feel the movement, energy, and life coming from the artwork. I want my art to force people to smile again. We all need a little sweetness, a pick-me-up when the world gets too heavy. We can’t be serious all the time.” ~ Natasha Wescot
“Traditional art education says that people paint for a variety of reasons, but it is all about communication for me, not just the simple act of creating something which can be very enjoyable. The onslaughts of unconscious thoughts in the world are laid bare for others. Art has life to it. Art is what we do when we have had enough.” ~ Linda Lane
“I am a portrait painter because of my passion for people. There is nothing more interesting to me than a new face. I search for subjects with whom I feel a connection. My portraits convey a fusion of my feelings for each subject with an intuitional use of color. In my portraits, I strive to reveal the personality of my subjects, intensifying them in a celebration of their existence.” ~ Stephen Bennett
“I am more interested in what I discover than what I invent.” ~Paul Simon
How did this trembling fragile mortal climb a mountain only to be overturned by the footlight? Is she only remembered in a pop culture gouache poster hung on museum walls? Did the barrage of paparazzi journey far too much along her poetic skin until her smile was only a mask?
She sought in her need an occasional piece of invisible space from the multimedia Blitzkrieg, a gruesomely ignored request, leaving her overwhelmed and lonely.
Fame has defamed the lives of many young wandering stars that all too quickly lose sight of the ground as they ascend in untrue expression. Party away their gifts, or anxiously tap dance trying to hold on to it all. And then there is this feeling of waning youth and lost desirability looming like a lonesome specter seeking misguided company.
No one wants to fade away or melt down into the decline of diminished talent or simply become disfranchised has long been fodder for a gossip column.
The fresh pain of invisibility in a fishbowl is enough. Only to find that not having lived unencumbered by another’s unreasonable expectations of them is a missing page never to be returned to.
I sadly watch others make a buck as they are assigned to tabloid vexing, distorted lies, framing my favorite stars in unfair craven icon images to gawk at in grocery lines.
Somewhere there are parties where someone transparently sadly impresses someone with names purposefully dropped for a quick tainted kick as if speaking it would, or could ever bring him or her closer into their orb as a friend.
They don’t know her. They don’t have an inkling of her true nature and worst of all they are making her forget that all she ever wanted from this was perform La Dame in Free Form.
But fame is ecliptic, and can be dismally dark, little joy did it impart for in her desire for the respect she was madly enveloped in lights of exploitive lust, barely escaping with a clean heart. This is the plight of stars past and stars present, whose lives are twisted and assumed in caught moments off guard when the weight of their personality subjects them to scrutiny and with little absolution or discretion stills the wagging tongue to tell tales that rewrite history, a history maybe not all entirely accurate.
I am not so sure that I even should care and that curiosity is a mindset not always best pursued. It’s a wasted perusing on perfectly good paper that could be filled with a far better read than what the stargazers report.
The distraction of misdirected compassion in all too many moments that are either lost or left out in the open for a heartless thief to steal is my greatest battle
To fend off the harsh with words from wounded wings is not my desired shatel
Oh Lord, give me a steadfast heart imbued with a clear calm mind That I may not worry anxiously or fret with somberness
Rather that I am a Joy that sings from the flames.
Caress in me a gentler response made of thy words and ways to defend humanity’s greatest gift, kindness.
Remove from me all negatives, cleanse and rid my life of fire trails
For my chalice now is surely strong and tempered well by the mortar of the consecrated ages of this soul
My Lord, do not abandon this intercessor
Rescue me from the very gloom that I’ve fought so hard to eliminate.
Do away with the fortress of my self-righteousness in the name of love.
Have me remember that all who receive the morning’s first sun will rise together as one ray of golden rebirth rising out of our fallen stardust in simpatico fandangos of mellifluous melodies sung
That I may receive evenings indigo air and sleep peacefully after a day well done. Harken to me over and over again until that which I’ve denied of my soul is the very bread of life fully blended into a fine meal, ground whole, and sound
Where reason and kindness become the communion of a covenant found
She Journeys is a collection of short stories of the divine feminine spirit as she mysteriously appeared in the many lives of a man who sought love for centuries in search of a great love. She might be playing at Valentine’s Lounge, caught up in a reverie of romantic calling, or in a cross Atlantic night of love, tenderly… unfolding in a communion kiss.
“I lay still until the next point in time
What I understand is that love is total commitment
A boy follows the call
But a man won’t waste a woman’s time”
– She Journeys by Laura Botsford
Cover Painting by Billa Bozem
Personal copies for sale with inscription ~ email@example.com
Sable had a peculiar twang to her voice; it was part English, in intonation, and slowed in long vowels like a forgotten magnolia debutante. She was often misunderstood, like any woman in a foreign country would be, still demure but secretly blunt only to the best of friends.
How she would tell one of her many yarns, depending on who she was talking to. In her best tales, she added occasional made-up composites of words, like griephop as a noun to describe an irrational arrogant snob or inowoom to describe a childlike woman. It served a purpose as far as her personal philosophy was concerned: “God gives only so many words a day.” She wanted to make the most of each day’s vernacular blessing.
I was walking around town one evening and saw her sitting on her porch. Her house faced the railroad track. The sun was setting and her rocking stopped as she looked up in awe into the melting gold light enveloped with brush strokes of crimson indigo palette across the horizon. She was entranced by its splendor and so still that even the breeze thought she was invisible and missed ruffling her hair in the wind. I approached her quietly so as not to startle her in her meditation. Sable’s peripheral vision was as sharp as an eagle’s. She saw me coming long before I arrived.
“Hey lady, what brings you out on this colorful evening? I am sure that the magic of all this,” she said brushing her hand across the sky.
“Yes, it is a beautiful sunset. I just had to get out of the house and walk around before nightfall.”
“Well, come on up here and sit with me a spell. I have another rocking chair right here for company,” She patted the chair arm with invitational zeal.
“Thank you, I would love to come and sit here with you.” I moved slowly up her steps into the sacred bubble of her many years on this porch and entered her reverie with silent respect. She handed me a pair of binoculars, her voice liltingly lifted into a much younger timber. “Look over there on the left of the sky. Do you see that cloud all puffed up looking like a cotton boll?”
“Yes I do,” I exclaimed, much surprised that I could indeed see it as she did. “It’s fluffed out and ready for picking.”
Sable laughed, “That’s right, it is the time of the year when all the fields are ready for picking. The sky even knows it. Come tomorrow we’ll hear the planes buzzing through the air raining the musky scent of defoliant, crisping up the leaves till there’s just skeleton stalks poking up high with their big ol’ cotton heads. Harvest is what we live for around here. You hadn’t been here long have you?” She glanced at my face, with a wash of recognition that she knew I was that Yankee girl.
Yes, Mamn,” I said. I’d been here long enough to know that most responses to elders were preceded by a yes mamn or a yes sir. It is an expression we seldom say up North, not because we are disrespectful, but because it is too formal and less friendly and often comes with a connotation of subservience to authority not needed in everyday neighborly conversation. But in the south, it is rude not to acknowledge one another without it.
“How are things going? Pretty different from what you are used to right?
I hardly knew Sable; she wasn’t someone in the circle of the town. The circle was not something I had become a part of myself yet, or if ever, so I found myself telling her things that I told no one.
“The people here are quite busy with their own families, work, and church. I am neither a Baptist nor a Methodist. Oh, I was raised a Lutheran but I am more of a spiritual day walker, I gathered up the parts of all the faiths and embrace aspects of many. I guess that either makes me unique in that or very confused.” I laughed. “And my husband is always working; he has little left over other than to sleep and hunt, so we never seem to go to church much anyway.
It’s not like where I grew up, people do things with their families all the time, take vacations in the summer, go on picnics, swim, boat, and watch TV shows together. I thought it would be like that. It’s not and that is hard for me. I don’t have any friends that I can relate to, and need friends.”
“The circle you seek is larger than what you think and you being an Inowoom, you are easily misunderstood,” Sable said.
“An Inowoom?” I asked.
“That is a woman who is an innocent. She is one of the remembered ones and with no ulterior motives present, just a joyful presence in the world, she is often considered a threat around here. You haven’t been brought here to belong, but to bring belonging to a corner of the planet that has forgotten that the circle of belonging is far wider than they know; you are feather brushed out to the edges where all eventually disappear as one. . Same goes for you too. These townspeople are all bright and shiny for you to discover and understand as well. I don’t think it will ever be easy for you. But you can only be who you are and in time the belonging will take place.
“Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time that face should form another; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.“
“That’s Shakespeare!” I exclaimed, quite surprised that a rural woman would know of Shakespeare, let alone quote the sonnet so eloquently.”
“I too am not all they would think that I am. I also wear public times with a quiet face. The larger circle brought me here too. It’s of no matter; I have my books to keep me warm and my Garden to keep me green with hope.” Sable’s face suddenly became youthful. I could plainly see her as a young woman of twenty.
“And it doesn’t bother you, that no one knows this very special side of you?
“No, It did when I was younger, like you, I wanted to share all the beauty I found in books. I wanted to show my paintings too, but they are like my children and I didn’t want them exposed to the glaring sun of ridicule, robbed of their brilliance in the twilight minds of others’ criticism. Life here is survival; there is little time for culture. But I see you, I know that you are much like I was back then and you can visit me anytime.”
“I would like that. I write a little myself, some songs too.” I told her in almost a whisper.
“You do, well I would love to read one sometime or hear one of your songs. For all that you do is not in vain, if nothing more than to please your time here with all that you enjoy. Never mind their petty jealousies or lack of not knowing, they didn’t fall from the same star as you, and in that, they can’t be blamed, we are all from different backgrounds of experience.”
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Will play the tyrants to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel; For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter, and confounds him there; Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o’er-snowed and bareness everywhere: Then were not summer’s distillation left, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was: But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
“These sonnets have new meaning for me Sable; I feel less alone talking with you. I have to go to the store now, but I will return. Can I bring you something from the store?”
“No thank you Miss Inowoom, I have everything I need.”
“I hope to see you tomorrow if I could?”
“That would be nice, I am usually right here.”
“I look forward to it.” I left her porch the same way I entered; pushing gently through a crystalline bubble. The sun was almost gone, the mist was hovering the low roads now, lingering vaporously in mystical wisps, enchanted and truly otherworldly. I thought about ghosts, I thought about angels, I thought about Tennessee Williams; he would have loved this place.
The power of Mantras echoes through our beings and heals us and with that the world as well. As we add to the collective consciousness of our humanity into a radiant beam of light and love we can change all things for the better. From the most ancient of Sanskirt prayers and chants that date back 5,000 years ago, I find resonance in my being as if the star seed I was born of awakens from its source. These sounds vibrate in our veins and regenerate our cells.
The Gayatri Mantra is regarded as the oldest living mantra. I began listening to Deva and Miten at the beginning of the Pandemic and found solace and strength in their songs and mantras. At first, I was just drawn to the vowel sounds and melodious melodies, drinking in the vibratory nectar, inhaling and exhaling each sound into my being. Then I became interested in what they meant. Om is the sound of the universe, the seed sound, and the sacred cosmic yes.
The word “Gayatri” can be translated as “song (gaya) of freedom (tri)”
“Goddess, who protects the singer” (gaya – song and trai – to protect, the same word as the “tra” in mantra)
The divine qualities/ deities expressed in the Gayatri Mantra:
BHUR – earth
BHUVAH – atmosphere
SVAHA – beyond atmosphere/solar region
TAT – Ganesh – the remover of obstacles, revealer of possibilities
SA- Narasimha – the protector
VI – Vishnu – the sustainer
TU -Shiva – the transformer
VA – Krishna – the divine beloved
RE – Radha – the divine feminine
NI – Lakshmi – abundance
YAM – Agni – fire
BHA – Indra – the king of gods
RGO – Saraswati – learning
DE- Durga – protection
VA – Hanuman – devotion
SYA – Prithvi – earth
DHEE – Surya – sun
MA – Sriram – virtuousness, purity
HI – Seetha – feminine devotion
DHI – Chandra – moon
YO – Yama – death
YO – Brahma – creation
NAH- Varuna – ocean
PRA – Lakshmi and Vishnu – abundance/sustaining principle
CHO – Hayagreeva – intelligence and knowledge
DA- Hamsa – swan
YAAT – Tulasi – holy basil/plant
The day approaches of the collective clarion call
New pathway lines will move in gentle circles.
The ladies within the close atmospheres of sisterhood take hands in alignment, touching the air with strings of buoyant beams.
They loop and curl and connect with the honey of sacred trust.
Emotive voices sing out the sounds that change the orbits and move the stars into place.
I have seen the cycle repeat and ascend many times.
In amazement, my spirit sensibly coordinated the treasures of your wisdom.
My hands surrendered to God and the words we came to speak evolved into a rain of mirth and contentment upon the world.
Space echoes my song and dearly embraces the wounded in a spiral of commitment of collective well-being that we might all benefit from.
Meticulous Maritimes created in madrigal harmony lilt lovingly across the cosmos, unveiling new novas already in thought and chanted song.
The flocks of the gallant light bearer gleaners gather us from within moving us out into the orbits of change. Teachers of God, Teachers of Love, and miracles of well-being willed by origination always emanate to us the ancient spiritual laws; setting a course for all to be transposed by. Our shapes are shifted by thought and intention. If I am to become thee, you must first believe in possibility, for the soul of mankind is at hand and only the Christ She will return us to the Kingdom of Heaven.
In these days of retrospect when entitlements are seeking a pass have come to be passé. The wings that carried some of us have lost feathers and the galloping of horses riding over the mountain can be heard. I cast off the old and embrace their thundering as they shake the earth with truth and uncompromising devotion to a better way of being. There on the mountain their dust can be seen descending in a holy cloud devoid of self-righteousness. I am listening. I am changing. I am opening myself to a greater understanding.
I do not mean to be so different. I just seem so because you are not used to my ways but there is more of me than the ages have seen. My future is in the face of a child so love them well and give them strength as the endless song of the river flows through all treasured border lands touching every shore and filling every whirlpool in discovery until my presence is upon all nations.
In the circle of wisdom where the sacred songs are sung and the light-workers pray is the resonating echo of love and kindness, respect for the experience the elders bring to the table the welcoming arms to the young to take up the torch of decency and equality. I see them as one I see them each taking a path of enlightenment for all human kind. The generation of children born to save us from ourselves.
These radiant beams and haloed renderings of fortuitous fruition of our inherited awareness are painted on the faces moving past me on a carousel.
Why not be simple, why not be free of worry, and ego’s image consciousness? I have not wanted anything from you except for you to know how much I love you and am pleased with your just, and pure of heart well-being.
No criticisms, only a chat with you at the feet of God. You are important and you are blessed; anything less than that does not serve. So that is what the books are saying and the hundreds of thousands self help audios. My pod cast is simple. Just go about your day knowing that in every moment I am there loving you and occasionally serving tea.
I wrote a little book inspired by our Sangha and Deva and Miten’s humming mantra. I also made a pocket-size version for carrying along and gifts for loved ones. “When the town’s snow melts before its time Bedelia, and her friends all gather together in a prayer song of united imaginations. Through the power of their whispering hearts in song miraculously change the weather.
Personally, I felt the shift begin when Covid first hit in March. Poets and writers alike have come alive with words of inspiration and a return to home.
I have a bounty of inner worlds that I’ve scribed into journals. Volumes of thoughts and feelings, dreams and scenes from days well thought and dreamy that I keep in boxes that now are dusty by the years of storage. It is my last year here in this home in the delta, and I want to write another one, one page every day.
The pandemic hit us in 2020, many of us are hanging on, trying our best to make things as normal as possible. I see my family, still don’t visit friends or travel, and though I wear a mask and am fully vaccinated I hesitate again to go out into the world because of the Covid variant.
My cupboards and closets are slowly being downsized or packed for the anticipated move to Conway to live closer to my children, and those little adorable grandchildren that I long to be a part of their everyday life.
I feel certain consternation though in the midst of this activity as if I am slowly letting go of the home I’ve known for 40 years. Memories are sneaky things; they appear in objects as you pack or discard. My mother is over my shoulder as I wrap the same pieces she once held to give to me. Did she feel this too, this sense of fading dream life, and excitement for a new one, a better one that isn’t so isolated?
Rosa is helping me with all this, and my children are coming on labor day to gather and claim their things and pieces they want to claim. I feel my life becoming staged like I am in set design mode for the move. I look at wallpaper and pull up the listing on Zillow of Rhi’s old house where we will move to, adjusted in my mind where my furniture will go best. I pick out wallpaper and paint to make it our own, which right now is somewhere between a Ballard magazine and an eastern meditation space of repose and enlightening whimsy.
I make lists and schedules to ease the transitions’, knowing full well that it will all be changed in the flow of it. Such is life. In the quake and sands shifting moment by moment I know in my heart that God is leading me home.
Her eyes were brown with an ebullient twinkle that winked occasionally when she spoke in wisdom quips. “You can only do the right thing, the next best thing is always the right thing,” Betty said breaking out in a little laugh that defied any impending difficulty. “Are you willing to let her get away with that? ” she asked. “With what, a harsh and narrow opinion of the world at large? She doesn’t know the larger world, she’s never been there, traveled, or gone past the Greenville bridge; how could she know?” I always thought it was odd that people had such sure opinions of life-based only on their rural perceptions. Including myself, I wasn’t sure of new thoughts of places until I visited them and got to know them better. People see their lives through their own experiences and not having had many different ones how could they ever be in a place of understanding? “One can only fit in a keyhole if one is willing to take on the shape of the key, the slight bumps and gaps that fit into the hole to turn the lock might be too big, too wide, or too new ain’t going to get it.” She folded a cup of chicken stock into the flour, careful not to overwork it, added a little salt and a bunch of pepper. She rolled it out with a floured rolling pin, on a dusted counter of all-purpose flour till it was an eighth inch thick, and began to cut it in diagonals.
“People are like dumplings, all different sizes but when they are put into the soup they make something all together tasty in the same pot.”
“So I see, people are the sum of the soup they came from?” I laughed, pleased that I got her metaphor, and happy to spend some time with this great lady who was making time to teach me the culinary tradition of chicken and dumplings.“Now we set them out to dry for ten minutes, bring the pot to a boil, then pull them apart slowly, stretching them to the max, and then drop them in one by one.” Her skill was exacting with a quick flair that rivaled Julia Child. I marveled at how they puffed as they popped up in the rolling broth. “Let them boil for 10 minutes then add the chicken.” She had cooked the chicken earlier, boned and shredded it in long strands. The succulent scent lingered in the kitchen with mouthwatering homeyness. I felt a kinship with her, a family bond growing, and for the first time a real feeling of belonging in this new world I was living in. “Get involved, maybe a church or a club of some kind to join?” she suggested. “Yeah, maybe so.” I was raised Lutheran, my grandparents were devoted Lutherans and my great grandfather on my Dad’s side help found the Swedish Lutheran church in Minneapolis. We went to church sometimes, Sunday school as young kids, had been baptized and confirmed, but on regular church Sundays we stayed home. Dad was a scientist by nature, quantum physics and Einstein was his go-to. Mother wasn’t comfortable in groups, she was a private person who believed faith was a personal relationship with God. It was all about how one lived their lives and treated each other.
She returned to church services when a young pastor arrived who wove everyday life with spiritual and biblical understanding, something she could resonate with that applied to her life, not ancient stories. Dad thought much of the real;y interesting things had been deleted by the churches to control the common man and institutionalize divisions; he believed that nature and life itself is where God truly lived. Their fellowship was with their neighbors and Jesus was a teacher. I felt the same and my spiritual roots were found in Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet. Leo and I had programs for our wedding and Gibran’s prose on Marriage was on the cover. You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another, but make not a bond of love:Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:For the pillars of the temple stand apart,And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.
Our music began with a hymn, We Gather Together, I wanted the community to be a part of our ceremony and I felt this was the best way to bring us all together to start our lives off together. It was a first in the Portland Methodist Church. We had a candlelight service with candles in the windows. It is the only time I remember the windows being opened a bit. The evening April air filled the room with a sweet spring fragrance and gently flickered throughout our unity candle ceremony. It was a blend of traditional and our modern-day that we treasured. Pastor Kilgore wouldn’t allow contemporary music but after some determined input by Dorothy Young as to how it was our wedding and not his, he agreed to her playing the sheet music of Longer Than by Dan Fogelberg.
Eatable Stones How far along the stones of memories stay before they are cast away downstream, replaced with others, and become a different bank? Depending on rain, or exploring footsteps that walked their shores to kick or skip away, stones with genie lamps, stones with the fools gold of promise unrequited, stones shaped like hearts that fell at our feet. Everyone I ever met is in this, and every odd dumpling I ever made is a part of my soup. Sit down, enjoy for all are welcomed here.
*Excerpt from Northern Bell, a Memoir of living in the South in the 1980s by Laura Botsford
The life and times of a young girl growing up in the rural south as the daughter of a sharecropper in 1949. Penny comes of age through hard times, her love and talent for cutting horses and taming her first love; Smith who is heir to the Silver Leaf Plantation her family works for.
Billy also has books at home and would be happy to autograph them for you too. email: firstname.lastname@example.org