A Priceless and Precious Piece of World War II History
I have had the privilege of friendship with the talented poet, Stephanie Peirce for some years now. We met at Goddard College where we were both pursuing our MFAs in creative writing, Stephanie as an aspiring poet and I as a writer of novel length fiction. It was love at first sight (for me anyway!) when I sat in on a poetry group she was in. She was, I fancied, a younger and more talented version of me. We both had the same long, wild mass of hair, though mine was beginning to silver by then and hers was golden. Somehow, though we were on different paths and didn’t see much of each other at school, we began a long distance friendship after graduation, checking in on each other’s writing journey and eventually serving as reader-editors for one another’s manuscripts.
Glimpses is Stephanie’s newest achievement, and it is wonderful! I recommend it heartily, and I am so proud to introduce you to it here.
Glimpses is a slim volume of letters, photos, and commentary that offers precious glimpses into the lives of the author’s paternal grandparents, Catherine “Treenie” Barham Peirce and Chichester “Chit” Tapscott Peirce Jr., who was killed in Germany on February 9, 1945. It tells a compelling story of love and loss, one that is carefully compiled and beautifully rendered. It is an absolute treasure, a gift not only to the memories of Stephanie’s grandparents, but also to the countless lives altered by World War II, and to readers and historians everywhere.
Glimpses will fit perfectly on this shelf!
Stephanie’s first book of poetry, The Bright Dark
Wishing you all ample time to read, to write, to dream and to create–and beautiful friends to share it all with. Love, Lori
“In a single week in the summer of 1973, a quiet suburban neighborhood implodes when generations of mystical deceit become too much to bear. Drawn to the web of secrets and lies, the other worldly slivers refuse to be ignored, pushing one family to the brink.” –Slivers blurb
Vicki Atkinson employs her considerable knowledge of psychology, a deep interest in intuition, and a firm commitment to empathy to create a novel about a family in distress in her debut novel, Slivers. The young protagonists share much more than they realize as they struggle to reveal the source of strange supernatural swirls, voices, tendrils, smoke, and more that plague them and their families.
Slivers combines teen camaraderie and adventure with a strong nod to tradition, ancestors, and the importance of unity. It speaks of family ties, and the importance of avoiding self-serving interests. It also offers some resplendent images that I very much enjoyed, such as this one:
“…a brilliant sunburst flooded the room. The legacy box grew and its ornate lid opened, revealing a scroll, unfurling until it filled the entire closet, floor to ceiling. The man in the portrait was no longer there, but his presence remained as he gave a one-word command to the scroll: “Reveal!” The largest family tree they’d ever seen hovered before them, grand and imposing with hundreds of large and small branches, each with names and tiny portraits…”
When you read the book, be sure not to miss the fascinating reveal in the Author’s Notes at the end. I won’t spoil it for you, but it’s a bit of Atkinson’s family history she discovered while doing research for the novel. Its relevance really adds weight to the story’s impact.
I’m lucky to have found Vicki Atkinson through my WordPress blog and to have read her riveting memoir, Surviving Sue, which if you haven’t already, I strongly suggest you read. Vicki is a generous writer and friend, one that I am proud to recommend!
Hello, Friends! In between a busy schedule of painting and repairs on our new/old house, Mr. P and I have been enjoying the warmer weather, and particularly the explosion of leaves and flowers on the deciduous trees and in the gardens and on the porches of many of our neighbors. We had one day that was much too hot for me, but so far, only one, so I have nothing to complain about. I am loving the mostly cool and humid spring climate here in the upper peninsula of Michigan. I told my husband it’s sort of like a cool Hawaii—lots of interesting weather changes within a day along with a lush and verdant landscape. It can go from sunny to cloudy and back again in no time.
Menominee River, Piers Gorge, Norway, MI
Our neighborhood consists of a sweet few blocks of century old two-story homes built for employees of the Ford plant that was here at the time, along with a park and a three-story home, called “the clubhouse” used by Ford and other important individuals.
Our deck clearly needs work! Great neighborhood though! Ford Addition, Kingsford, MI
“…Construction on the houses […] in the upper Ford Addition began in mid-May, 1924. Placed 24 to a block and kept in good repair by a crew of men employed by the Ford Motor Company for that purpose, the homes had electric lights, indoor bathrooms and were wired for a telephone. Most had three rooms downstairs, three rooms upstairs and a large cement basement. Some had five rooms, three on the ground floor and two upstairs. The smaller bungalows had five small rooms. Prices ranged from $3,500 to $5,500. A block-and-a-half square situated between Woodward Avenue and Hamilton Avenue was left for a park in the 600 block. In 1928 the park was equipped with tables, benches and garbage cans. A bandstand was erected in 1929, and a concert was held every Wednesday evening during the summer months. A cinder path was added in 1930 and tennis courts were also added [Menominee Range Historical Museum].” https://history.dickinsoncountylibrary.org.
I’m told we have our own little neighborhood parade, that the high school band marches down our street, and that we have a very big Halloween turnout here. The middle school, high school, a little lake, a park, medical clinic, a brew pub, tavern, and restaurant are all within easy walking distance. Nearby there are bigger lakes, the Menominee River, ski hills . . . . just all kinds of wonderful natural beauty. Walking and kayaking are our favorite activities here so far.
It’s fun to watch the rhythms of the place unfold as we begin to find our place here, bit by bit.
Cowboy Lake, Kingsford, MI
Fumee Falls, Quinnesec, MI
Piers Gorge, Norway, MI
Reading News:
My latest reads include
Blonde Dust, Tatiana de Rosnay—loved it!
My Husband’s Wife, Alice Feeney—entertaining
Judge Stone, James Patterson and Viola Davis—entertaining
Broken Country, Clare Leslie Hall—loved it
The Widow, John Grisham—entertaining
The Missing Pages, Alyson Richman–entertaining
My current read is Slivers, by Vicki Atkinson. Vicki is a fellow WordPress blogger and author of the wonderful memoir, Surviving Sue, which I loved. She is a licensed professional counselor with a doctorate in Adult Education and degrees in Psychology. I’m delighted to read her debut novel, Slivers, and will be writing a review soon!
One of my oldest friends called me last week. I’d been having a rough time and had withdrawn in a way that only a very close friend would recognize. I’d still been “in touch” with her, but I was withholding, and she could tell. She called, and I don’t remember exactly what she said, but her voice was soft and patient and expectant. She made it possible for me to reveal my heartache and gave me time to say the things out loud that I hadn’t been able to say.
Dr. Gerald Stein in his post, “Why the Clock is Essential in Therapy (and Relationships)” (https://drgeraldstein.wordpress.com), discusses that making time for “tender issues… can be like a dance, the partners move together as if choreographed…”, and that is what my friend did for me. She didn’t try to stop my tears or give me advice. It was like a dance in a way, or maybe like a prayer. Total acceptance and love.
After a while my breathing settled and we continued our conversation. She told me about “Dayenu,” the prayer and Passover seder song that tells the story of Exodus. The melody of the song is joyous and upbeat, a list of fifteen things God did for the Jews, anyone of which, they say, would have been enough for them. Sefaria Library’s reading of the text begins “How much good, layer upon layer, the omnipresent has done for us. Had He brought us out of Egypt without bringing judgment upon [our oppressors], that would have been enough for us.”
Traditional Seder Plate with Symbolic Foods for Passover- Pexels Free Photos
It would have been enough. Dayenu is a prayer of gratitude, but, she intimated (or perhaps I misunderstood and twisted it to suit my own situation), that sometimes the word Dayenu can also be used as a cleansing release. I don’t want to be disrespectful. But when I think of her saying “Dayenu! Enough!” I feel a little better.
Unlike my friend, I wasn’t raised in any specific faith. Though I believe my divorced parents were given religious instruction, I think my dad more than my mom, they did not, evidently, feel the need to share it with their progeny.
Why not? I’ve wondered. Parsing that is loose. My grandfathers died long before I was born, and one of my grandmothers died when I was a baby. The only grandparent I knew was my mom’s mom who died when I was nineteen. Sadly, I didn’t see her enough, nor know what to ask her about when I did. And for some reason, religion wasn’t much spoken of in my childhood, unless you took the Lord’s name in vain. That was frowned upon, unless Mom was really angry, in which case, she couldn’t be held to account. Dad never lost his temper and never cursed, so there wasn’t a lot of reason, I guess, for him to even bring up sin or religion or God. Anyway, Mom and Dad didn’t live together after I was four-years-old, so I would never be a member of a traditional united family like the ones I fantasized about.
Openverse, New York Public Library (Obviously I had very grand and old-fashioned fantasies about family life–I read a lot!)
I know Dad attended a Methodist church growing up in Chicago, and that his widowed librarian mother was a model of decorum, and that, in the 1920’s and ‘30s meant adherence to social norms such as church attendance. I’m not sure whether Mom was taken to church as a child, but given the times, I imagine she was at least exposed. Her upbringing was less city, less refined than Dad’s. Mom grew up in Faribault, Minnesota with a terminally ill father she adored, a Swedish immigrant who was bedridden by the time she was of school age, and her mother worked many hours a week to support the family. There were eight children, but by the time Mom came along several of them had left home. It wasn’t a farm, so it wasn’t as if the siblings had a reason to stay once they reached maturity, though I believe several of her older brothers helped contribute to the family income.
Both of my grandmothers worked outside the home, which I used to think was somewhat unusual, but now I know women have always worked in all kinds of ways other than homemaking. It just didn’t get reported. Women’s contributions have always been underrepresented in American society. For me, born in the 1950s and growing up in the 1960s and early 70s, it was normal to think that women had always been home. I grew up watching The Donna Reid Show, I Love Lucy and Leave it to Beaver. Sitcoms regularly featured women as married and caring for husbands and children, even if the woman happened to be a witch, as in Samantha of Bewitched. It was the ideal. Only a rare few Katherine Hepburn types, charming enough, but come on, not really practical, lived independent lives or made money of their own. That’s what we were told. I mean neither of my grandmothers was even allowed to vote when they were young, but they were allowed to work to support their families.
Dad’s father, a Scottish immigrant, died when Dad was four. Dad’s only sibling died at age twelve, and his spinster aunt, a seamstress, lived with them, bringing in an extra bit of income and caring for my dad (now an only child) while his mother worked, so even though it was the Great Depression and the family had experienced horrible loss, between his mother and his aunt, things stayed afloat. Dad was well looked after, educated, participated in church and school activities, and was enrolled in a pre-med program at college before WWII changed everything. Mom, on the other hand, didn’t, couldn’t, get the same amount of attention and help. When would her mother who cooked and cleaned and cared for other people and other people’s children probably for most of the day and most of the night, day after day without reprieve have had the time to take my mom to church?
Mom didn’t talk about it. Both of my parents claimed to believe in God and considered themselves Christian, and I believed them, but it was sort of incidental. God was why you didn’t lie or cheat or hurt others. Jesus was why we had Christmas and Easter. Despite their professed faith, both of them shunned churches and had little good to say about people who attended them. Organized religion, Dad said, had caused most of the world’s problems. Mom was less philosophical. She just didn’t care for their “holier than thou” ways. I was left to find my own path if I so desired, but was never given any formal, or indeed informal, religious education.
It took me a long time, with a lot of detours, to begin to travel my own spiritual path, and I haven’t been exactly good at it, but in my own halting way I’ve touched—not held, but touched, fragments of comfort, peace, and wonder over the years. The ways grace arrived for me are varied. A Lutheran friend. A Jewish friend. A Latter-Day Saints friend. A longing to give something lasting to my children. A church bell, and then another, and another. Calls to worship. Two Presbyterian congregations, one large and one small. One Episcopal congregation, tiny. A community where different faiths worked together. Health scares. Reading. Love. All of these. And Prayer. Something I always did, instinctively. Prayer.
I was surprised to find handwritten prayers in Dad’s bedside table drawer when he died. A nightly prayer list, it appeared. All beautifully written, eloquently phrased personal prayers for me and my brother and our families.
So Dad prayed, too, more than I knew.
Perhaps that was enough.
Thank you for reading, and my hopes for you today are these—may you have enough friendship, enough time, and the opportunity to grow in love and joy in all the ways that fill you.
It’s been two weeks since I left Nevada and one week since I arrived at my new Michigan home. All of these days have been solo; I drove alone, I arrived alone to an empty house, I spend my days here alone. There’s a theme building . . . For now!
The Way In
But husband and kitties will be joining me soon.
The Dreaded Cot(I do not love it)
A Lonely Room (but I love it!)
As an introvert, this hasn’t been particularly tough. I love people, but I also love solitude. I just got the internet yesterday, and that’s fun because now I can write and publish my writing more easily. No TV here yet. No furniture to speak of. I have one little lamp table that fit in my car, a folding camp chair, and a cot. That’s it. Everything else will come in the moving van next week. So, what do I do all day?
I clean and I read. Often, at the same time, by listening to audiobooks using the Libby library App. One of the books I’ve enjoyed so far during this extended period of solitude is aptly The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah. It’s a tough book about a tough time and a tough place, but I liked it. Alaska in the 1970s, mental illness, abuse . . . it’s got it all, but it isn’t only that, of course. It’s also a book filled with nostalgia, love, and the awesomeness of nature.
Other books I read either just prior to moving, during the drive, or since my arrival are: We All Live Here, Moyes; Sandwich, Newman; The Secret Book of Flora Lea, Henry; Remain, Spark and Shyamalan; The Missing Half, Flowers and Kiester; and currently, The Island of Sea Women, See. Each book has its merits.
I found both We All Live Here and Sandwich charming and humorous. Both are light, contemporary novels with women protagonists wrestling with life changing events and the love of family.
The Secret Book of Flora Lea took me to one of my favorite historical settings, World War II England, in the countryside and also to London in the 1960s. It’s a delightful book about sisters, families, love, and the importance of stories.
Remain and The Missing Half are mysteries, with Remain being the more entertaining of the two for me. The Missing Half helped pass the time, but Remain’s ghostly love story captivated me at times, including during several memorable scenes that made me shiver.
And now I’m listening to The Island of Sea Women. It’s taken me to a part of the world I know very little about, which I love, because I am learning so much. It’s set in Korea from the story’s beginning in the 1930s and will move through the war years and take me to the present day. It’s about women sea divers (an amazing group of female divers who earn the money for their families while their husbands care for the children), and it’s the story of two friends Mi-ja and Young-sook.
As you can see, I’ve not been alone, not really, for I’ve been traveling through time and place along with the characters created by the authors of these varied and appealing novels, carried away by their stories. It’s a kind of magic really, the way a reader lives both inside and outside of a book—simultaneously in the room, and also somewhere else far away.
I love this line about reading from Stephen Chbosky from his young adult novel, The Perks of Being a Wallflower:
“Sometimes, I read a book, and I think I am the people in the book.”
“You should write because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different words on a page. Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.” ― Annie Proulx
“One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to send it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water. Similarly, the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes.” -Annie Dillard
One way I manage my writing is with the free online Query Tracker (QT) service, which makes it easy for writers to search for literary agents. I love that I can narrow my search to suit my particular manuscript—by genre and length—and also by providing links to the agents’ respective agencies, where I can read extensively about the agency itself, what authors it represents, and much more. Locating an updated list of literary agents currently accepting queries and providing an organized space to keep track of who I submit to and when is immediately helpful.
Have you used Query Tracker? I’ve been using it for several years now, and I find it very useful. In the beginning I used it to research agents, looking for professionals who represented my genre of fiction. Gradually, I felt ready to send out queries and began the laborious process. I also keep a paper file where I jot down notes about the various agents’ manuscript wish lists and guidelines, as well as the dates I submitted to them. That is my messy but personalized backup, and I intend to continue the practice, but it’s also extremely helpful to use the free online Query Tracker.
Over time, I’ve found that I also greatly appreciate the features for recording the date I get a response (if ever), and the type of response. Agents request different content. Some accept only a query letter. Some want a certain number of sample pages along with the query (the number of pages varies). Some request a synopsis. Most of them have a loosely specified timeline given for responding to queries, with many of them stating that if you don’t hear from them within that time frame, it counts as a pass on your manuscript. If you get a response asking for more pages, or the full manuscript (Hallelujah!), there’s a place on QT for you to record that information as well. You can organize the submission chart alphabetically by agent or agency or by date submitted. This is just a quick overview.
Photo by Lori Pohlman
In my case, after sending out over 80 deeply researched and personally tailored queries to agents, with a couple of requests for more material that sadly didn’t bring an offer of representation, I went back to the drawing board. I revised the manuscript again on my own and then had the whole thing professionally edited. That accomplished, I felt ready to start submitting again, but this time I decided to submit the manuscript to small publishers that accept submissions without agent representation. I’ve read there is a better chance of getting traditionally published going this route.
Query Tracker has a search engine for publishers as well, so it was easy for me to search for publishers, again by genre and length, to research those who published my genre, and to begin submitting again. Currently I have 7 submissions out with these small presses, one of which contacted me within a few days. It’s currently under review there, but it could be some time before I hear anything, so I’m keeping the other submissions out there, and will continue sending out more.
It’s still early days in this process, but with the new year just hours away, I’m energized about new possibilities! I’d love to hear about your writing life journey—not only the path to publishing, but about all aspects of this beautifully messy creative life we share. With Love!
Lauren Scott, King Copper: Our Dog’s Life in Poetry
Lauren Scott’s love of her family’s beautiful chocolate lab, Copper, shines in this sweet little volume of photographs and poems that follow their lives together from adoption day on. In her words, King Copper is “a poetic account of the joy that arises when a lovable chocolate lab walks into your life and changes it forever. And the eventual heartache you feel when he crosses over the rainbow bridge thirteen years later and still too soon.”
What a touching account, and what a testament to the glorious impact our beloved pets have on our lives. If only all dogs—all pets—were as well loved and appreciated as the delightful lab Lauren writes so poetically about, the world would truly be a better place. Brava to Lauren for giving her beloved Copper a tribute worthy of his beauty and goodness! Did it make me cry a bit? Absolutely. But tears shed over the loss of a dear dog are never wrong. There is nothing purer than a dog’s affection and devotion. Copper wasn’t my dog, but I, too, have loved wonderful dogs. Like Lauren and her family, I know our animal companions deserve our deepest affection in return for the many gifts they give us. Part of the price for that gift is the same as it is for anything we open up our hearts to fully—the possibility, even the probability that one day there will be pain and loss.
But as Lauren so aptly says, “We celebrate his life- those soul-searching eyes that connected to us- we were links in a golden chain and now one link is missing, our golden boy- each day tears follow like a shadow- the shadow he was, but smiles gently find their place because he is in our hearts, because joy needs room to simmer.”
You can visit Lauren’s blog at baydreamerwrites.com.
A few days in Paris, Writing . . . Years agoNever forgotten
Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” ―Mary Oliver
Moving a life forward is an investment in dreams, time, learning, relationship building, and so much more. Moving a writinglife forward is all of that, and I would add it is also, at its best, a life transformed. As Anne Frank so eloquently put it: “I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.” Writing did not save Anne Frank’s life, but I believe her writing has saved the lives of countless others.
Writers may feel called to the creative life, but that one precious life often must take a back seat to another, more practical life, one that includes a sensible career (aka something with a steady paycheck), perhaps with snatches of scribbling in between the job, chores, and attending to family or societal needs and expectations. The writing life can be a kind of shadow life. It has been for me. Some writers seldom or never mention their craft while engaged in their more acceptable “real” life.
“I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.” —James Michener
It’s hard to explain to nonwriters why a few hours or a whole day spent attending a sporting event or a picnic can create in the writer a kind of panic—a feeling that the time needed to be alone, to read and to write, will never be enough, that time is seeping away, draining their spirit. Spending “free time” in non-creative areas can feel terribly wasted to the writer, while to others, the writer’s avoidance of joining in reeks of selfishness, or delusion. Or perhaps it’s just incomprehensible. Why, people wonder, is writing so important to you? There’s no money in it. And if there is, it’s only available to a few spectacularly talented gifted authors. If you had that gift, surely you’d have been published by now.
The writing life can be an ill-defined series of swells of poetic energy or flow, which is heady and soul lifting. There is nothing quite like those times. Catherine Drinker Bowen says, “For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word.” And I have felt that many times. Writing has healed me.
But those transcendent hours or days are for writers seeking an agent or publisher likely to alternate with rejection after rejection after rejection. Writers do much of their writing alone, but if they seek representation and traditional publishing, they must eventually learn the oft times punishing lessons of business.
Soon I’ll be working with a developmental content editor on my completed World War II historical fiction manuscript. I’m excited to be taking this major step forward. It’s been a long journey, and honestly, I’ve loved the myriad lessons and experiences along the way, even the hard ones.
“If a story is in you, it has to come out.” —William Faulkner
American Writers Museum, Chicago, Illinois
Thank you for visiting! Wishing you a wonderful day, doing exactly what you need and want to do.
Joy Neal Kidney’s treasury of family stories traces the lives of seven generations of her ancestors– their joys, their hardships, and their enduring faith.
The short, lyrical portraits of the lives of these women along with their husbands, sons, and daughters begin with Jane (Watson) Branson who was born in 1782 and end with Joy, herself, the memory keeper who researched, gathered photographs, recorded and wrote the lovely tributes, poetry, and historical details, and brought it all together for her family—and for her readers.
This charming volume gives all of us a delightful and heartfelt glimpse into the way our ancestors give us life, tradition, strength, and love, while reminding us of the many reasons we should honor them and remember them.
It’s a beautiful little gem of a book. Highly recommended!
Jess Walter’s latest novel tells the story of Rhys Kinnick, a sad-hearted journalist who punches his son-in-law in the face at Thanksgiving, throws his cell phone out his car window, drops out of society, and goes off to live in the forest. The experience of reading So Far Gone reminded me of the not dissimilar experience of watching a Coen brothers movie such as The Big Lebowski or Fargo—odd ball characters, extreme situations, violence, and humor—often jumbled up together in the same scenes—in an overall story that somehow also manages to convey intelligence and love.
Walters is a master at building complicated characters in vivid, precise strokes. The characters in So Far Gone range from the struggling grandfather protagonist, to his charming grandchildren, his confused daughter, a group of religious zealot gun-toting conspiracy theorists, a bipolar retired cop, an old girlfriend with major attitude, his loyal friends Joanie and Brian, and other colorful characters Rhys meets along the way.
It’s a story about a crumbling America, about people lost and found, a world under siege, and ultimately about small miracles of healing magic fashioned by family and friendship. I found it refreshing, and touching, funny, sometimes outrageous, disturbing . . . and also an interesting look at the way some of us old dreamers and staunch believers in the ideals of fairness, justice, and a better future for all are feeling about and reacting to the twisted reality we now see laid out before us. So Far Gone is the perfect title for a book that describes us, now, today.
LakeArrowheadLadyWriter 
Book Review: Glimpses, Grandfather’s Life During World War II by Stephanie Peirce
I have had the privilege of friendship with the talented poet, Stephanie Peirce for some years now. We met at Goddard College where we were both pursuing our MFAs in creative writing, Stephanie as an aspiring poet and I as a writer of novel length fiction. It was love at first sight (for me anyway!) when I sat in on a poetry group she was in. She was, I fancied, a younger and more talented version of me. We both had the same long, wild mass of hair, though mine was beginning to silver by then and hers was golden. Somehow, though we were on different paths and didn’t see much of each other at school, we began a long distance friendship after graduation, checking in on each other’s writing journey and eventually serving as reader-editors for one another’s manuscripts.
Glimpses is Stephanie’s newest achievement, and it is wonderful! I recommend it heartily, and I am so proud to introduce you to it here.
Glimpses: Grandfather’s Life During World War II | Barnes & Noble®
Glimpses is a slim volume of letters, photos, and commentary that offers precious glimpses into the lives of the author’s paternal grandparents, Catherine “Treenie” Barham Peirce and Chichester “Chit” Tapscott Peirce Jr., who was killed in Germany on February 9, 1945. It tells a compelling story of love and loss, one that is carefully compiled and beautifully rendered. It is an absolute treasure, a gift not only to the memories of Stephanie’s grandparents, but also to the countless lives altered by World War II, and to readers and historians everywhere.
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Tagged as Book Review, Books, Family, Friendship, poems, poetry, Writing