Simple Yet Profound

You would think that having 30 or so days each month would make it easy to come up with topics to write about for this blog. But that is often not the case for me.  As a friend of mine once said, “Sometimes life gets too Lifey.” In other words, we get so busy in life that all our energy and creative juices can get sucked right out of us.  Since writing requires focus and large chunks of time, this can be a challenge for people like me, whose minds and bodies are often scattered and distracted. Then again, ideas can come zooming in from out of nowhere and slap you upside the face.  Such was the case with this month’s post.

I was reading through a stack of children’s books, studying the subject matter, illustrations, and how writers craft their stories, when I came to First, the Egg by Laura Vaccaro Seeger.  The book is a very short and simple concept story about growth, change, and basically how this becomes that. Eggs become chickens, and tadpoles become frogs. You get the picture.  However, I then turned a page. Suddenly, paint becomes the picture. Words become the story.  Seeing those words on the page was like being hit by lightning. I don’t know why, but tears began to form in my eyes.  Actually, I just lied.  I understand why I became teary because, on this particular day and many others, I was wrestling with feelings of defeat and imposter syndrome. Sometimes, it’s tough to pick myself up, dust off my disappointment, and write more stories. Constant rejections sting, some more than others, and I am now at 102 rejections in five years.  My husband compares me to Stuart Smalley whenever I start talking about giving up writing children’s stories.  However, this book, First the Egg, laid it all out very simply for me. Everything truly excellent in our world begins small, simple, and basic, and over time, through many changes, becomes transformed into complex and magnificent things. Caterpillars, for instance, are cool and amusing but limited in their abilities. Yet after what must feel like a grueling process to them, they metamorphose into butterflies, like Monarchs, capable of pollinating the plants that this world needs and making incredible migrations over vast ecosystems through constant dangers to winter in Mexico. These tiny, delicate creatures are capable of what should seem to be impossible.

So, maybe I will keep writing my stories. Perhaps I, too, can do something that seems impossible and get published. Because, as Stuart Smalley would say, “I’m strong enough, I’m good enough, and doggone it, people like me.”

Recently, I have been exploring the art of collage-making. I periodically dabble in it, thinking I might take a stab at illustrating one of my stories and perhaps have better luck querying a publisher, as writers who also illustrate seem to be in demand.  As I work on my compositions, I think again of Seeger’s message in First the Egg. Each collage begins with a simple mark made on a blank sheet of paper. Then, over time, many more marks, shapes, and colors are introduced and layered. The paper eventually dances with interactions between colors, patterns, and forms. It all begins with one mark, purposely made, followed by another and another until everything binds together as a statement, a feeling, a satisfying expression. First the egg, then the chicken.  First, the mark, then the masterpiece.  Baby steps. Success is built through baby steps.

For this month’s Recommended Read, you can learn more about Laura Vaccaro Seeger’s book, First the Egg.  And under the Activities section, you can explore my Create A Collage project. In whatever we do in our lives, may we remember to enjoy the process of living, one step after another.

Time Traveling on Trains

My husband and I traveled to Boone, Iowa, to ride an old train this week. The Boone and Scenic Valley Railroad operates over an 11-mile section of the former Fort Dodge, Des Moines & Southern Railroad, between Boone and Wolf, Iowa, a former junction with the Minneapolis & St. Louis Railway. Visitors can see several restored trains from the 1930s – 40s and enjoy a ride on the rails through the scenic Des Moines River Valley.  While sitting at our candle-lit table, complete with roses in a vase, we were serenaded by vintage music and lush landscape views. At one point, our train crossed Bass Point Creek on a 156-foot-tall steel bridge that took us high above the treetops. It was brief, breathtaking, and so worth the trouble of the long drive there.

As we ate our meal and enjoyed the trip, we reminisced about our childhood train experiences.  When Tom was eight or so, his family traveled by train to California for a vacation.  At a stop in New Mexico, sneaky and unattended, Tom stepped off the train to examine rocks along the tracks. He picked up one that appealed, then got back on the train, and his family was none the wiser!  Considering everything that could have gone wrong in his leaving the train, it’s a blessing that nothing happened.  He kept that rock and has it still, reminding him of that exciting trip.

I had two childhood experiences on trains. Once, when I was very small – maybe six or seven years old, my family went to our local depot to pick up my grandparents, who had gone to Ohio to visit family.  I remember the excitement of waiting at the station for their arrival, hearing the train whistle coming in, watching as passengers unloaded, and spotting my grandparents.  The train was an exciting thing that took you to wonderful places or connected you with loved ones for happy experiences.  A few years later, my brother and I had been staying with our other grandparents in Iowa, and when it was time to go home, my aunt brought us back home by train. The trip was exciting as it rolled through farmland and crossed the Mississippi River. When we arrived at our town depot, I remember getting off the train and feeling quite grown up.

Flash forward fifty years, and I found myself a grandma babysitting my first grandchild, Jaycie. She and her mother lived in a small rural house very near some train tracks.  Every day, as trains approached, they lay on their horns, and poor Jaycie would be frightened. She’d cover her ears and run to me crying.  I’d pick her up, walk to the window, and say, “Don’t be afraid. The train blows its whistle to tell people hello and to get off the tracks because it needs to go through.” This seemed to help a little.  She always hated the noise of the trains whistling, but after I read her The Little Red Caboose Golden Book, she seemed to forget about the noise. Who can help but fall in love with trains after reading that story and feeling encouraged learning that small can be mighty – that we must “hold tight.”

The little red caboose also taught us about the function of each type of train car. There are oil cars, coal cars, livestock cars, and engines.  After reading Little Red Caboose, Jaycie and I would stand at the window and practice our numbers by counting train cars and learning to identify the different kinds of train cars.  I remember we were stunned by trains with over one hundred cars and how many were transporting oil and coal.  Only Amtrak carried passengers in one or two cars. Considerably fewer travelers in this day and age, but clearly, railroads are still vital for the transport of fuels.  Jaycie, then three, noticed there were never any cabooses.  I wouldn’t have noticed had she not said anything. This made me do some Googling, and we learned that Caboose cars are rarely used anymore, as trains function differently. So, think again if you believe an old children’s book like The Little Red Caboose might have little relevance today. The book still offers many entertaining and meaningful things and opens conversations and investigations into the whys and hows of train travel.

Last week, Jaycie graduated from eighth grade and will soon be entering her freshman year of high school. She has not yet traveled by train, but I hope to give her that experience one day soon. Perhaps we will ride an Amtrak to Chicago’s Union Station!

For this month’s Recommended Read check out The Little Red Caboose by Marian Potter and illustrated by Tibor Gergely. Even if you read it as a child, re-read it and savor its nostalgic illustrations and timeless message.

And under the Activities section of my blog, check out my Loose Caboose worksheet.

Writing Contests: A Rite of Spring for Children’s Authors

So many of my blog posts revolve around the inspiration I get from family, childhood memories, and my time in nature. These are the things that motivate me to write children’s books. But I am also greatly encouraged by all those wonderful people who have been in the same difficult writing trenches and have climbed out to find success. Happily, for those of us still finding our way, these good folks understand the importance of doing what they can to lift up others and share their support. Such efforts can keep a writer going.

For children’s authors, each new year kicks off with a host of reflective, inspirational, and rewarding writing challenges. Beginning with Julie Hedlund’s 12 Days of Christmas challenge, in which writers reflect on their strengths and weaknesses, validate their worth, and develop writing growth goals for the coming year. Next up is Tara Lazar’s Storystorm –a delightful month of inspirational brainstorming blog posts by children’s authors that stimulate writers to produce 30 new book ideas.  After that comes Susanna Leonard Hill’s Annual Valentiny Writing Contest, Mindy Alysse Weiss’s PB Party, Kailei Pew and Ebony Lynn Mudd’s PB Rising Stars Mentorships, Vivian Kirkfield’s Fifty Precious Words Contest, and now, Ciara O’Neal and Kaitlyn Leann Sanchez’s annual Spring Fling Kidlit Contest.

For the Spring Fling Kidlit Contest, one must submit a 150-word story about a spring topic and post it on the host’s website, along with a related GIF.  What I love about this contest, and so many others, is the challenge of writing a complete story with an arc using such a small word count. Doing so makes you choose your words carefully, picking out only the most necessary to help you creatively tell your story.  The other thing I love about this contest is the awesome prizes donated by the even more awesome authors, agents, and editors who help sponsor the competition. Prizes include books, critiques, submission opportunities, editing services, or ask-me-anything meetings. These generous donors include:

Ivan Taurisano, Editor with Abrams Books, offers a critique or above-the-slushpile submission opportunity. IG: @ivantaurisano X: @IvanTaurisano

Kim Hoa, author of A Gift for Nai Nai – a signed book donation. @AutumnLeaflet on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Bluesky, and Threads

DK Ryland, author of Giraffe’s Book is Missing a Story – a signed book donation. @dkryland – instagram

Sara Andrea Fajardo, author of Crack Goes the Cascaron – a critique. @safajarwrites

Rebecca Garden Levington, author of Whatever Comes Tomorrow – a 30-minute ask-me-anything meeting. IG: @rebeccagardynlevington, Twitter/X: @WriterRebeccaGL, Bluesky: @rebeccaglevington, Facebook: @WriterRebeccaGL

Aixa Perez Prado, author of Mercedes Sosa: Voice of the People – book donation or critique. insta: @aixasdoodlesandbooks

Vivian Kirkfield, author of One Girl’s Voice – a 20-minute ask-me-anything meeting. Bluesky: @viviankirkfield.bsky.social, Facebook: @vivian.kirkfield, Instagram: @viviankirkfield/, Twitter/X: @viviankirkfield

Valerie Bolling, author of I See Color – a 20-minute ask-me-anything meeting. Instagram: @valeriebollingauthor   Bluesky: @valeriebolling.bsky.social  Facebook: @ValerieBollingAuthor  Twitter: @valerie_bolling

Jolene Guiterrez, author of Mamiachi and Me – critique. Facebook: @writerjolene Instagram: @writerjolene  Bluesky:  @writerjolene.bsky.social

Megan and Jorge Lacera, authors of Wild Ones – critique. Insta: @jorgelaceracreates @authormeganlacera

Ciara O’Neal, author of Pedro the Pirate – book or critique. Twitter: @Ciaralovesbooks https://ciaraoneal.weebly.com/

 Agent Kaitlyn Sanchez – book or critique. IG/Twitter/Facebook: @KaitlynLeann17, Bluesky: @kaitlynleann17.bsky.social 

So, if you’re a children’s author, it’s not too late to join the fun. You have until April 3 to submit a story. Follow this link for more information: https://sites.google.com/view/springflingwritingcontest/main.

And if you’re not a writer but love children’s books, I encourage you to purchase or check out the above list of books from your local library.

The following story is my entry for the contest.

Happy Spring, everyone!

Spring Bunnies

by Julie Lerczak                                                                            

One moist and misty Springtime morn,                     

four baby bunnies once were born.                              

In four short weeks, they grew and grew,                    

soon, their nest just wouldn’t do.  

                                  

So out onto the lawn they leapt,                                    

to learn the secrets this world kept.                             

But little did the bunnies know,                                      

hungry neighbors watched them grow.  

                     

A fox, an owl, a freckled cat,                                             

were prowling, watching this and that.                       

Snapping twigs, a rustling shrub…                                

predators were hunting grub!   

                                                      

There was no time to breathe or think.                       

Bunny lives teetered on the brink.                                 

Then, by chance, an escape appeared.                       

Down a hole, they disappeared. 

                                    

Four wiser rabbits are now found,                                 

raising their young on clovered ground.                      

And someday soon, their kits will know,                     

PAY ATTENTION WHERE YOU GO!  

Spring Chickens

Now that my husband and I have returned to rural life, my old habits from previous years of country living are returning to me. Ever since I first lived in the country about twenty-five years ago, I have raised chickens and ducks for a short time.  Five years ago, we moved to be closer to my mother so I could help her during her decline. We moved to a town that prohibited chicken rearing, and it hurt like the dickens to say goodbye to our sweet little flock.  Isabelle Buttercup, Ruby Rose, Almond, Lonnie, Goldilocks, and Daisy were re-homed to a nearby farmer. He kindly allowed us to visit them, which helped ease the sadness of our parting ways.

But now, here we are again, and there are no reasons not to have chickens. So, this last week was the big week. It happened as it always happens.  I went to the Farm King store “just to look” at the chicks, and I found myself walking in the front door with a box of them, trying to explain to my husband that it was necessary to buy them that day.  In truth, it was necessary to get them when I saw them, as the sales clerk mentioned there is a run on chickens this year due to the high price of eggs. Everyone wants to raise them now.  She told me the chickens they had that day would likely all be sold before the weekend.

So, I have chickens living in a corner box. Yesterday, we drove to a different farm supply store (TSC—Tractor Supply Company) and ordered a gorgeous chicken coop with a pen. I’m sitting here waiting for its delivery as I write. 

Every day, I try to spend time with the chicks, holding them, talking softly, tidying their box, and then later reading about their breeds and stages of development. These little balls of fluff have quickly stolen my heart and filled me with hope and plans for bright, sunny hours of fun and productivity. They grow so very fast, just like my grandchildren. They are only a week old, and their wings are already sprouting feathers. They are practicing scratching, pecking, and foraging. They are up at dawn and go to bed at sunset. They peep, alarmed at loud noises or if Tom and I approach their box.  They are practicing being grown-up.

How like them, my grandchildren are, as they grow, developing new abilities and attempting to fit into a grown-up world. Their baby stages of crawling and cooing have only lasted seconds. Now, both are climbing and running and using their words. Hallie Jean, who is two, still speaks baby language, but now her speech is peppered with words we can understand, and she can communicate more and more. She says things like, “What doing, Mommy?” “Daddy go?” “All done,” “Hi, Nanny,” and more. Owen, now just over one-year-old, is saying Mama, Dada, and bah (for the ball) and using sign language to say “more.”  They are changing so fast that I get anxious about missing their growth.

Jaycie, my 13-year-old granddaughter, seems more like she’s 18 when you speak to her. She is so bright, articulate, and savvy – far more advanced than I was at that age.

Though I would welcome the opportunity to see the three grandkids daily, I know I can’t. We live too far apart for that, and their family is so busy with school and work. Therefore, I must savor those sweet times when we can get together.  In the meantime, I will focus on raising these baby chicks into beautiful, pampered hens. I’m no spring chicken myself anymore, but I still have the energy to tend a flock and have all my mothering instincts, which have never gone away.

For this month’s Recommended Read, see my review of Chickens on the Loose by Jane Kurtz. And under the Activities section of this blog, you’ll find a Hen and Chicks Coloring Page for your little ones to enjoy.

Finding Hope in Hard Times

Illness, home repairs, and despair over America’s current political antics descended on me like a heavy grey cloud this month. So, I missed the boat in posting a Valentine’s Day-related essay. Thankfully, I’m back in writing mode now, and the slightly longer days of sunlight and the first spring songs of birds have had a healing effect. Ultimately, I’ve decided it’s never too late to post a story about Love.

This month, I want to write about hope. (Because, after all, Love and Hope go hand in hand.) How do we find hope when the world seems bleak, whether you’re a child or an adult? More importantly, how can we adults leave legacies of hope for our children?

As I watch my grandchildren delight in achieving new milestones, like conquering walking, speaking clear words, or making new friends, my heart swells with happiness for them. I remember early moments of pure joy when I was a child, oblivious to the sadnesses and stresses of the world.  But at some point, darkness can engulf you, and you may not know what to do. You hope that your parents will make it all go away. 

When I was a kid, the Vietnam War was going on. I remember war being on the news every night as my parents silently watched the reports. I remember scenes of violence and asking why the neighbor across the street had a POW flag on their porch. An even earlier memory is of my mother sobbing on the couch and me running to comfort her, asking what was wrong. She explained that President Kennedy had been shot.  I didn’t understand. I was afraid and powerless. All I could think of was to hug her and tell her I loved her.

I see now that my brothers and I were our parents’ hope, just as they were ours. We believed in our Love, home, and togetherness, which would get us through everything. This is the only legacy of hope that I can leave my own child and grandchildren.  Just love one another, hold each other up in good times and bad times, keep believing in the world’s goodness, and do everything you can to surround yourself with Love and seek it.

Now, more than ever, it’s important to wear Love on our skins, to show acts of Love and tell people we love them, to let our lights shine and be beacons of hope. I know no other way to survive.

This week, I read that the actress/model/children’s author Julianne Moore has had her book, Freckleface Strawberry, banned by the Trump administration from schools run by the Department of Defense. Moore’s book is based on her childhood and promotes a theme of loving oneself just the way you are. She was devastated by the ban and can’t comprehend it, just as I’m sure other authors feel when their works appear on banned book lists.  I can tell you banning a book only makes me more curious. Aren’t we supposed to be wiser and past all such nonsense? Where is our freedom of speech?

Needless to say, I’m ordering the Freckleface Strawberry book. This banned book business has to be stopped. I won’t be told what I can and cannot read, feel, and think. In fact, I will make a greater effort to read banned books this year. So there.

I asked my husband the other day how he finds hope when the world seems dark. He said he just knows that bad things don’t last forever, and he focuses on moving forward and savoring the good things that are all around him. He endures and plows forward. This is a simple answer, but one I needed to hear. I also know he speaks up when he feels something is wrong. He makes his opinion known, and he never misses an election. My husband is right. Bad things don’t last forever. Pendulums swing.

For this month’s book review, I’ve written about a wonderful children’s book that should be read by people of all ages: LOVE IN THE LIBRARY by Maggie Tokuda-Hall and illustrated by Yas Imamura. It’s a moving story about finding Love in a Japanese internment camp during World War II. Get your hankies out. It’s guaranteed to move you and leave you with hope. You can read more about it under Recommended Reads.

And under my Activities section, check out my Sow Some Seeds of Hope activity to welcome the coming Spring.

A Year of Firsts

One year ago, on January 15th, during a nasty winter storm, my sweet little grandson, Owen, came into the world.  I remember the anxiety I felt because, for days, heavy snow and ice were forecast.  My daughter and her husband lived in the country and had a 30-minute drive to the hospital for the baby’s delivery. Country roads are notorious for drifting and causing accidents, and I worried they wouldn’t make it.  Also weighing on me were their other two children, my granddaughters Jaycie and Hallie.  I had stayed with Jaycie when Hallie was born, but living an hour away and dealing with my own white-out conditions, I would not be able to look after the girls this time. Another nearby relative was called upon for help.

Our sweet Owen wasn’t supposed to happen, yet God had other plans. My daughter, Katie, had some health problems and difficulties with the birth of Hallie, and the doctor said she most likely could not conceive again. He was wrong. While Hallie was only a few months old, Katie received the news Owen would be joining our family.

Because of Katie’s previous birthing issues, Owen would be delivered, slightly premature, by caesarian section. I tensely waited for the news of his arrival, and at last, it came. All was well.

I didn’t meet Owen until he was about two weeks old. He was such a precious nugget and slept the entire time. He surprised us again when it was discovered that he already had a tooth, or rather a tiny calcification that had developed, not at all rooted. Shortly after being born and settling in, he was scheduled for its removal.

Owen is one of the most laid-back babies I’ve ever known.  From infancy to toddlerhood, he has been a super quiet but intense watcher, taking in all the bustling chaos of his family.   Owen is a smiler and a cuddler, which we all love.  And he’s also something else – a tough little endurer.  His first year has been fraught with ear infections to the point of him needing to have tubes installed. One side of his head appeared slightly flattened, so he had to wear a helmet for a month. Now, he is fighting Covid on his first birthday.  Through it all, Owen keeps smiling, and I’m struck by how resilient babies are.  They are born filled with hope.

Because Owen is fighting Covid, I won’t be able to see him on his birthday, so we will celebrate in a couple of weeks. I can hardly wait to hold him and present him with a new book. He started showing an interest in books at around six months. I would sit with him on one side and Hallie on the other and read to them. Hallie would chatter incomprehensible things and turn the pages while Owen mastered pointing at things and then looking up at me in wordless communication.

Owen’s first year, of course, has been about more than a tooth removal and several illnesses. He has learned how to roll over and crawl in the middle of it all. Christmas week, he began walking, and only days after that, he figured out how to climb.  He’s learning to feed himself and enjoys following Hallie, picking things up and dropping them (deliberately), laughing at peek-a-book, and can say two words –mama and bah (for the ball.) Like all other babies that grace our world, he is an inquisitive little sponge filled with excitement for the wonders surrounding him. And he is made for love.

Though I’ve delighted in watching my other grandchildren and my daughter as they’ve grown, seeing another baby develop and learn is something I never tire of. It is fleeting magic and yet a promise that life will go on. My cup runneth over.

This month, I reviewed the classic evergreen board book that happens to be my grandchildren’s favorite: Where Is Baby’s Belly Button? by Karen Katz. You can learn more about it under Recommended Reads.

The Gift of Time

Recently, I went out for breakfast with my dear friend, Sheri. We discussed our families’ plans for the Christmas holiday and how our large families handle gift-giving. As our families grow and disperse, it can be challenging to know what to give. My strategy has been to start planning and buying earlier, give more gift cards, and let others choose what they want. But Sheri’s take was totally different and blew me away. 

Sheri is a devout Christian. The widow of an Evangelical pastor who died young from pancreatic cancer.  Her life has been framed in the Bible’s teachings, and I can honestly say I’ve never known anyone stronger. She never strays “from God’s words.”  Her approach to the holiday is simple and beautiful. She buys one gift for every grandchild, and with all of the adults, there is an agreement – Do Something for Someone Else, then report back next year at Christmas.  Doing something for others can include a wide range of things, such as helping a friend move, running errands for someone, babysitting for a friend, or donating to a cause. It’s up to them to determine how much they want to contribute or how far they want to step out of their comfort zone. 

I love this idea of giving our time to someone else at any time of the year.  Time is a gift that fits one and all. It’s something we always want more of. So often, I have wished for someone to help me with an extra pair of hands, run errands when I don’t feel well, or sit beside me when I need to talk.  Our time is probably the most precious thing we can give to others.

After our breakfast, I thought about Sheri’s advice and asked myself if I was giving meaningful time to others who might need it and, if not, what the gift of time might look like. I was pleased to realize that I do have a habit of making time for others, though admittedly not always in the biggest ways.

Here are just a few examples of giving the gift of your time to others:

Be a Listener—Give the gift of listening to someone carrying a burden, such as sadness, frustration, confusion, or fear. Begin by learning not to just talk about yourself. Practice two-way conversation, and always sincerely ask others how they are doing. I once read that the greatest kindness you can extend to another is to say, “Tell me about yourself.”

Be a Supporter—Give something to support others who labor to do good for the world. Donate to those who need assistance in projects that help provide people with food, shelter, education, medical supplies, disaster clean-up, etc. Give your time by assisting with the work or using your time to help raise money or awareness for these causes.

Be a Partner—Do you know someone who is alone and going through tough times? Consider driving them to doctor’s appointments, accompanying them on surgery days, or bringing them food when they are ill. Help them with a building, painting, or moving project. Let them know they’re not alone.

Be a Bright Spot in Someone’s Day – Surprise the people in your world who provide essential services that keep your community humming. Bring them an unexpected plate of home-baked cookies or a bouquet of cut flowers from your garden. If you garden and have a surplus of vegetables, put them on a card table in front of your house with a sign that says “free.” I promise you someone will take you up on the offer.

Be a Companion—Connect with the elderly in nursing homes and assisted living centers. Drop in with fresh flower bouquets, cookies, or doughnuts. Donate used puzzles (with no missing pieces). Strike up conversations, play cards, and keep them company. Ask them to tell you about their lives. Many people in these homes have no visitors. Be their visitor.

Be a Volunteer—Watch your paper for volunteer opportunities. Sign up to help in different ways: at community events (promotion, set-up, and clean-up), work at a local food pantry, tend a community garden, or help at a local animal shelter.

Be a Steward – Does trash along the highway or a hiking trail upset you? Pick it up. It doesn’t teach better manners to those who leave the trash, but you are helping nature and protecting the beauty of our earth when you help combat trash dumping.  Is trash-picking not your thing? Look up what your local park district or conservation organizations are doing. Perhaps they need people to help them burn prairies, plant trees, build trails, and monitor bluebird houses.

Be an Inspiration—Donate art supplies to a school, park district, or community center. Offer to read to children at a library.

Demonstrating how to give our time to others also teaches our children and families compassion and empathy. Jesus simply said it best: “Love one another.” And that’s what Christmas is all about.

For a sweet picture book that promotes giving to others, check out Give by Jen Arena, reviewed under the Recommended Reads section of this blog.

Without Words

I had just been looking at photos of my beautiful grandchildren on the Frameo that my daughter and son-in-law gave us for Christmas a couple of years ago.  It’s a bittersweet gift for which I’m grateful.  Sweet –because I love having photos to glance at every day, making me feel like my family is near.  Bitter — because they aren’t near. They are busy living their work/school/daycare lives about an hour from me.  I don’t see them nearly as often as I wish.

Just then, my phone rang. It was my daughter on a Tuesday night at about 7:30. She usually doesn’t call just to chat on weeknights, so something was up.

“Hello,” I said. 

“Hi, Mom,” she answered in an apparent glum voice.

“What’s wrong, hon?”

“Owen has a fever, and we can’t take him to the daycare with a fever.  We’ve used up almost all our sick days with sick kids. Could you come stay with him tomorrow?” 

“Yes!!” I said, interrupting her last sentence. 

Sick or not, I live for moments with my grandkids.  Katie apologized and tried to explain that she and my son-in-law each had only one sick day left, and they were concerned about what to do if a serious illness descended upon the family. It is, after all, the beginning of flu season.  Owen is nine months old and in the midst of teething.  It was very likely his fever was associated with the teething.  He’d also recently had an ear infection that might have been lingering.  Regardless, I happily agreed to babysit.

The next day, I was up by 5:00 and on the road by 6:00, reporting for duty by 7:15.  The family was scurrying around, trying to get things together to depart for school and work.  Owen, or “Owey” as we call him, sat wide-eyed, watching, not realizing he would not go to daycare.  Hugs and kisses were exchanged, and then everyone waved goodbye.  I held Owen as we stood in the doorway and waved to everyone.  Owen is a quiet baby who rarely makes a peep.  But I could see there was deep concern on his sweet little face as his brow furrowed, watching Mom and sisters drive away. He turned to look at me as if to say, “They forgot me!”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I reassured.  “Granny is here to care for you, and they’ll be back.” His little fingers tightly clenched my shirt as he studied my face. 

“Let’s read a book,” I said.  In my opinion, a book is always good medicine for whatever might ail us.  I picked up a small, palm-sized board book about a frog at a pond and began to read.  Immediately, Owen was engrossed, eyes glued to each page.  He never made a sound, but his tiny index finger moved around each page, pointing at things. Wherever his finger landed, I said the name of what Owen had singled out and talked about what was happening in the pictures.  When we finished reading the book, I closed the covers and said, “All done!” He grabbed the book and opened it again, pointing. “No, Granny! We are not done,” is how I interpreted his body language. So, we read the book again.  And again, and again, and again. I loved that he loved the book, and I probably could have read it to him a hundred more times, and he would have been delighted. But I needed to find something else. I grabbed another book and after that, about six more.  Owey loves books!  There’s nothing I love more than sharing a book with a child.

After our reading time, Owen seemed fine with having a day alone with me. We progressed to playing with balls, blocks, and toys that he could throw or drop, and I’d fetch. He showed me how fast he could crawl and how skilled he’d become at pulling himself up, squatting, and then standing up again. Still no words, but he beamed with delight at his accomplishment. I picked him up, stood him on my lap, telling him I loved him, and kissed him on his neck. Owen wiggled and squealed. No words needed to tell me he was ticklish, but he liked it.

Soon, Owen whimpered and made “mmmum, mmum, mmum sounds.” I walked with him to the kitchen. “I’ll bet you’re hungry,” I said. His mom had left his food options out on the kitchen island. I picked up the can of little chewy fruit-flavored cereal puffs, and his eyes indicated he approved.  I poured some into my hand, and quickly, he grabbed one after another and shoved them in his mouth. I then gave him some bits of banana, which he loved. But when satisfied, words were unnecessary to tell me he’d had enough.  He raised his hands, stretched, and ran his sticky banana-coated fingers through his hair! A thorough wash-up followed. 

After breakfast, we watched a little Mickey Mouse, and I noticed Owen staring without blinking as if entranced. He’d been awake since six a.m., and it was now 10:30. Could he possibly be sleepy?  I shut the television off and turned him so he could lay his head on my shoulder. Then I began to rock him and sing. As I sang, I gently stroked the side of his face, and quickly, his eyes closed. Within minutes, he was asleep.  I’d read the signs correctly.  It may have been many years since I raised a baby, but I still could understand them, though they spoke no words.  I was proud of myself, and I hadn’t forgotten how.  But more than anything, I hoped that though Owen couldn’t talk and might not know the meaning of words, he would understand how deeply I love and believe in him. I firmly believe that while words are helpful, they aren’t necessary to convey everlasting love.

Because our sweet Owen is such a quiet-natured child, I’ve reviewed The Quiet Book by Deborah Underwood, illustrated by Renata Liwska, for this month’s book review under Recommended Reads.

And just for fun, you can practice reading people’s expressions (like I read Owen’s) with my Quiet Communications worksheet, which is found under the Activities section of this blog.

My Favorite Time of Year

Autumn has always been my very favorite time of year. The colorful foliage and cooler temperatures energize me and stimulate my creative impulses. Over the last four years, I’ve particularly enjoyed participating in some fall writing contests for children’s picture book authors. One is the Fall Writing Frenzy Contest hosted by author Lydia Lukidis and literary agent Kaitlyn Sanchez. The other is Susanna Leonard Hill’s Annual Halloweensie Writing Contest. Both contests require themed stories (fall or Halloween-related) that use a minimum of words. The Fall Writing Frenzy Contest requires that you choose from a handful of selected images provided by the contest hosts and use that image to inspire your story of 200 words or less. The Halloweensie contest requires using three particular words in your story, and the word count is limited to 100. These challenges offer writers real growth as we focus on the economy and magic of our word choices. Best of all, winners are awarded fantastic prizes, such as free books and manuscript critiques from literary agents and published authors, and there are nice opportunities to connect with and support other writers.

So, here are my entries for the two contests. I had great fun writing them. You’ll notice they are quite similar in theme, and I rhymed again—something I try not to do too often, but what can I say? It happens. I hope you enjoy them.

Entry for the 2024 Halloweensie Writing Contest:

The Craving                                                                              

by Julie Lerczak            (96 words)

One Halloween, no stars shined.

Branches creaked. Black cats whined.

Roaming witches zoomed up high.                                                                                           

Trick-or-treaters tiptoed by.

Creeping, sneaking, looking out,                                                  

freaky things lurked about.

Moaning zombies, toothy rats,                                        

goblins wearing spikey hats.

Creatures gathered in the street,

growling loud, stomping feet.

Each had cravings. Each went wild,                             

stalking, chasing every child!

Children ran. They shrieked and screamed.

All around, monsters teamed.

“Please, don’t eat us,” wee ones cried,                      

chilly, shaking, terrified.       

The monsters stopped in their tracks.

“Hold on there! Please relax!

Eat You? Why, we never would!        

We want candy! Oh, so good!”

Entry for the 2024 Fall Writing Frenzy Contest:

Something Stirred in the Lake          (188 words)

By Julie Lerczak

Bubble and slurp,

Gurgle and burp,

Something stirred in the lake.

It swished and swirled,

Then mud was hurled.

Someone was wide awake.

Upon a bank,

Slimy and rank,

It crawled and looked around.

There, up ahead,

A worn path led,

Straight to an old campground.

The “Thing” smelled smoke,

From burning oak,

Stirring a mournful moan.

Driven to eat,

The “Thing” craved meat,

And juicy marrow bone.

Hurried it went,

Tracking a scent,

Hopeful to find a meal.

Full moon howling,

Tummy growling,

It ran and drooled with zeal.

A camper sat

Atop his mat,

Feeding a golden flame.

He, too, could eat

Some tender meat,

Be it wild beast or tame.

The “Thing” walked in

Screaming a din.

The camper, unafraid,

Said, “Take a seat.

Put up your feet.

A feast for two, I’ve laid.”

Surprised and pleased,

The “Thing” then eased

Into a happy scene.

Sitting on logs,

They ate hot dogs

Along with hot canned beans.

There was no fright.

There was no flight.

There was no blood and gore.

Just two new friends,

Sorting out their day’s ends,

Sharing hot dogs, then s’mores.

You can enjoy more of the contest entries by checking out the following blogs:

The 14th Annual Halloweensie Writing Contest aahhhrrrooooOOOO!!!
#FallWritingFrenzy 2024 Rules

Back to Our Future

Just when you think everything in your life is perfect and going smoothly, things can change abruptly sending you into a tailspin. SUCH is my life now.  Four years ago, my husband and I moved from the country to a city, so I could be closer to my mother, who was terminally ill. It was a difficult, but necessary move and it all happened rather quickly. After months of searching for the perfect home, my ceramics instructor told me of another one of her students who had to move quickly because her husband’s health was failing, and she needed to be nearer family for support. We met with her, shook hands, and made a quick “as is” deal. Before we knew it, we had parted ways with our country life.  

It took a while to adjust. The house needed much work and though we pushed ourselves and accomplished much, it wasn’t easy with back-and-forth trips to help my mother. We were living on adrenaline. On top of it all, COVID hit, turning the world even more on end. Since moving here, we lost my mother, moved Tom’s mother to an assisted living center, and sold both our mothers’ houses plus our old country house. We totally renovated the house we moved into, fought our own bouts with COVID, helped care for & homeschool our granddaughter when her school shut down during the pandemic, had two surgeries, re-landscaped the yard, made new friends, welcomed two new grandchildren, and finally began to feel settled. Yet like the old folk tale of the Princess and the Pea, something wasn’t quite right.

Sometimes the uneasiness would creep in at the strangest times. At a recent Fourth of July family fish fry, while people around us laughed and talked and children chased one another with sparklers, my husband heard the song of a wood thrush. He got up and walked away from the festivities, following the bird’s song to the nearby woods. It had been years since we’d heard one and the longing to be in the country tugged at his heart.  I too had my moments. It’s summer and my mind and body expect to be tied up in a garden.  I’ve planted many flowers at this home, but also a small, raised garden bed for vegetables.  Everything is ready for harvesting now. We’ve had onions, radishes, strawberries, green peppers, eggplant, and tomatoes. I stuck some asparagus and rhubarb in among the flower beds and wanted to keep planting. But alas, there simply wasn’t room for any more in our tiny backyard. I turned to foraging and began to harvest the wood sorrel, clover, purslane, lilies, and dandelions – not because I needed food, but because I so deeply needed the connection to nature. 

Two weeks ago, Tom and I packed a picnic and drove to a nearby lake for lunch and some birdwatching.  On the way home we took a wild goose ride through the country and came upon a humble little ranch house sitting at the edge of some woods. There was a for sale sign. At the same time, we both caught our breath.  We parked in the middle of the road pondering what was before us, then slowly drove away in silence. After a few seconds, I asked, “Should I call a realtor, so we can look at it?” His response was “Yes.” That was on a Monday. On Tuesday, we toured the property. Wednesday, we made an offer. Thursday the offer was accepted. Friday, we prepared to list our house on the market and headed to the bank for a loan. The next week the real estate listing went live, the new house had a home inspection, our loan is being processed and every day we work on packing up our belongings and periodically leaving the house so prospective buyers can tour our home.

To say we are filled with emotions is an understatement. We are stronger for the hard times we’ve survived, and proud of all the work and improvements we’ve accomplished. But we are also sad to leave our house and the comforts of daily habits we’ve established here.

I lay awake at night trying to figure out how our things will fit into the new house if I will have to part with beloved keepsakes, and if I can make the new house feel like “home.”

I voiced my concerns to a friend who responded – “you’ll make it a beautiful home because that’s what you do. You take a blank canvas and create something.”  I was touched by her belief in me. So, despite bits of sadness we’re feeling, we are also excited by future possibilities… bigger gardens to plant, favorite bird songs to savor, and living more in sync with the land and the seasons.  We may be seniors, but in our hearts still want to roam, play, explore, and grow big ideas. No doubt this next chapter in our lives will stir my writer’s heart and inspire me to write more children’s stories. I can hardly wait.

For this month’s children’s book review, you can read about House Mouse by Michael Hall, under the Recommended Reads section of the blog.