A Wedding Gown and a Poker Charm—Celebrity Keepsakes

These days, I’m fondly called the “Keepsake Lady," a term I embrace. After all, since Project Keepsake was published earlier this year, readers call me and send emails telling me about their beloved keepsakes. I love the stories people share with me—I really do. Each story is unique, yet each reveals common threads that connect us all.

So as the Keepsake Lady, I’ve assumed the responsibility of making sure readers don’t miss stories about keepsakes. There were at least two references to celebrity keepsakes last week—one in the mainstream media news and the other in the not-so-mainstream world of podcasts.

Angelina Jolie's wedding gown was covered with her children's artwork and now it's a keepsake.

I’ll start with Angelina Jolie’s wedding gown. Did you see the photos? Angelina’s ivory Versace wedding dress was embellished with whimsical doodles of people, flowers, bikes, teddy bears, airplanes, and made-up words. The colorful, graffiti-like drawings, created by Jolie and Pitt's six children, were professionally embroidered onto her gown and veil.

Jolie told Hello! Magazine, "I wanted the kids to be a part of everything, including the dress, because that's our family. That represents the way we live our life together."

I usually roll my eyes at wacky pop culture stories, but the story of Jolie’s dress made me smile in the middle of a week brimming with the horrors of ISIS beheadings, the Syrian slaughterhouse, Putin’s power play, and ebola ripping across West Africa.

I think that all wedding dresses are destined to become keepsakes to the brides who wear them, but Jolie’s wedding frock will be a priceless family keepsake, forever. Her kids’ love, creativity, and handiwork are all over the gown, and their doodles add meaning to both the dress and the occasion.

The day after I saw the photos of Jolie’s doodle dress, I downloaded a few episodes of The Moth podcast (www.themoth.org) and went out for a morning run. As my feet pounded the pavement, I listened to professional poker player, Annie Duke, tell an inspirational story in front of a live, Las Vegas audience. In “The Big Things You Don’t Do,” Duke chronicles what it was like to play in the most high-stakes poker game of her life—the $ 2 million, winner-take-all, 2004 Tournament of Champions. She won, by the way.

In the podcast, she talks about playing at a table against nine of the best poker players in the world and wondering if she had been asked to compete because of her gender, and not her skill. She reveals that one of the poker players said something to her during a break that robbed her of her confidence. And she mentions poker player, Greg “Fossil Man” Raymer.

Professional poker player, Greg "Fossil Man" Raymer, uses polished fossil slices as card protectors. He gave one of his poker charms to Annie Duke after she knocked him out of a 2004 poker tournament. 

Well, I don’t watch television poker, even though my father loved poker more than anyone on God’s green earth, but I read a lot. I am familiar with Annie Duke, but I had never heard of Greg “Fossil Man” Raymer prior to listening to her story. Duke explains that Raymer uses fossil charms as card protectors, and he gifts his fossils to poker players who knock him out of tournaments. Duke knocked “Fossil Man” out of the 2004 tournament, and he walked around the table, handed her a fossil, and whispered something to her that revived her confidence. It was a signature moment for her.

I bet Annie Duke still has that fossil. I’m sure that her winning the tournament transformed the little polished relic into a priceless keepsake—a reminder of an event she'll never forget. Indeed, her fossil keepsake will forever be part of the story now.

Everyone—even celebrities—has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell.

We keep things so we will remember, but somewhere along the way, our keepsakes take on lives of their own and define where we came from, what matters to us, and perhaps most of all, who we are. Jolie's wedding dress and Duke's card protector tell us a little bit about who they are.

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Project Keepsake is on sale right now! FREE shipping and handling! Great gift item, especially for the holidays. Buy it right here right now, and I'll throw in a free bookmark.

Remembering Sam and Other Dogs on National Dog Day

I'm a dog person—always have been and always will be. I was born this way. Even as a child, I relished the attention of our German Shepherd, King, who sailed into bed with me on dark, stormy nights. He was terrified of thunder and lightning, and I loved cradling his huge, trembling body and whispering, "Everything's going to be okay, Buddy." One day during a particularly powerful thunderstorm, he disappeared from our backyard, and we never saw him again.

I came into this world loving dogs. Here is one of the only photos I have of me and King, a German Shepherd we lost during a thunderstorm.

Since King, there have been many other dogs I have loved and lost—Boaz, Bubby, Ink, Trump, Roxy, Shadow, and our beloved Daisy who we lost just after Christmas last year. My heart still aches for her.

Some people don't get it. There will always be those who walk among us who can't comprehend the love and bond between me and my animals—between human and dog. I feel pity for those people, because the world must be a dismal, colorless, miserable place for them to live each day without the presence and connection of furry companions.

Sue Rogers Davis understands the depth of which a human can love a dog. Two years ago, a photo Sue posted on Facebook caught my attention. The photo showed her black lab, Sweeney, riding in her car with her. I instantly recognized the expression on Sweeney's face. I've seen the same look on my own dogs' faces—the pure, unadulterated joy of riding around town with me. Sue had posted the photo as a memorial to Sweeney, who had died of cancer.

Sue's keepsake story details the relationship she had with another dog, Sam, when she was just nine years old. Sam was much more than a pet to her—he was her playmate, her confidante, her sibling. Sam played tag and other games with young Sue and her friends. He also followed her to school sometimes. But after Sam snapped at a classmate, Sue's family was forced to get rid of him. A little piece of Sue died the day she watched Sam leave with a stranger.

Young Sue wrote a poem to commemorate the events leading to Sam's removal—a poem Sue has kept for decades as a keepsake. "My Poem About Sam," starts on page 56 of Project Keepsake. Thank you for telling your story, Sue, and thank you for being a tireless advocate for dogs.

“I tried to run after them but collapsed and cried, “No, you
can’t take him! No! This can’t be happening.”

I froze in disbelief. My mom, daddy, and uncle all went back
to doing normal everyday things, as if nothing had happened.
I wanted to shout at them, “Stop it! Things will NEVER be
the same. Things will NEVER be normal again.”

I remained on the cool ground for quite some time,
continuing to cry so hard that I wasn’t sure if I could ever stop. Eventually, I picked myself up and walked into the house—alone.

I learned later that the girl’s parents had hired an attorney to have Sam taken away.

Days passed, and I still couldn’t get Sam out of my mind. I missed him so much, and I was sure he missed me, too.

My uncle came by a few days later and said that Sam had run away. I was hopeful that he was on his way home to me. I waited and watched for him to return, but he never did.

In my grief, I wrote a poem about Sam—the first poem I ever composed. At nine, my feelings spilled all over the page.

I keep a copy of Sam’s poem as a reminder—a keepsake. When I read it, its words take me right back to that place and time. In my mind, I see a joyous Sam running, playing, and dancing with me in the yard, and then I see him leaving with a stranger, never to come back to me. I see my little body on the ground, crying and pleading for mercy. And I feel the pain and distress that I felt after losing my best friend, so many years ago.

SAM

I had a dog, his name was Sam,
He always liked to run around.
One day at school he bit a girl,
And it seemed as though,
Everything went in a whirl.
And then one day, my dad came home,
And said to me in a very low tone,
“Sue, I’m sorry to have to say
You’ve got to give ol’ Sam away.”
One day my uncle told my dad,
He knew someone who would be very glad, To take my dog away from me,
And take him to a farm so he could run free. A few weeks later I heard Bill say,
That Sam had up and run away.
No one knew where Sam had gone.
But I know one thing, he never came home.”

— Sue Rogers Davis from Project Keepsake

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And since it is National Dog Day, I hope you dog people will do something special with your dog today. Take him to the park. Play catch. Give him a treat. Brush him. Kiss him. Tell him he's a good boy—or tell her what a good girl she is. Let him or her sleep on the foot of your bed tonight.

The love of a dog—and the love for a dog—is boundless. I hope you are inspired to experience it for yourself one day. Please make a donation to a local pet rescue and advocacy group and consider adopting a shelter dog.

Cooking-Related Keepsakes and Karen Phillips' Pie Plate

When I started asking people about their keepsakes a few years ago, I learned so many of us women treasure items that had previous lives in the kitchens of our mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers. We hold onto cooking-related heirlooms like rolling pins, pans, cutting boards, and aprons. I'm not surprised. After all, some of my most beloved memories emanate from my grandmothers' old country kitchens. In the South, food and heaps of home cooking equal love, and both of my grandmothers loved everybody who stopped by their houses.

This is a bowl I took as a keepsake from my Grandmother Lanier's kitchen after she died. In its heyday, I'm sure it held millions of peas and butter beans. And I love to think about all of the hands that touched it as they passed it around the table, spooning vegetables onto their plates. It's cracked and stained but still has great value to me. I loved those people, and I carry a million memories of them around with me each day.

I can still hear their voices saying, "Have some more. There's plenty." I can still see the tables jammed full of platters and bowls of fresh, Southern delicacies. Much of the food was fried— plucked piping hot from the grease of a black iron skillet.

I have a cracked serving bowl that once graced my Grandmother Lanier's kitchen table. Tiny lady peas, brown field peas, and butter beans swimming in a shimmery broth were staples at Grandmother's house, so I feel certain that the little bowl held millions of peas and beans in its lifetime. I wonder how many times it was passed around the table. I think about my Papa Lanier's hands cradling it as he dipped peas onto his plate. After Grandmother died and her house outside of Metter was abandoned, I found the bowl pushed far back in a dark cabinet as if it didn't have any value. To me, it was priceless. I saved it that day.

Karen Phillips has a few cooking-related, kitchen-related keepsakes, too.  She wrote a keepsake story about her grandmother's pie plate. Karen infused her story with great imagery like "a kitchen forever filled with the fragrance of love" and the "glorious fluff of her mashed potatoes." And I love the fact that Karen started her story making a pie from her grandmother's hand-scribed recipe.

Karen Phillips wrote a story about her grandmother's pie plate—a beautiful tribute to "Ma." I love the yellowy glass of yesteryear. Her story begins on page 128 of Project Keepsake.

Like so many of the book's story contributors, I met Karen through the Chattanooga Writers' Guild, a wonderful, nurturing group of writers who inspire me every day. Karen has participated in a few Project Keepsake events in Northwest Georgia. I'm always happy to see her face in the audience, and I love to hear her read her story. She is one of the kindest people I have ever met.

Karen's story starts on page 128 of Project Keepsake. Thank you, Karen!

“As I topped the lemon meringue pie for my mother’s eightieth birthday, my eyes caught on the fluted-handled edge of the glass pie plate. It came from my late grandmother Ma’s kitchen, forever filled with the fragrance of love. Before my mother made it, Ma had created this same pie, and it was her worn recipe in her own handwriting I followed.

The same glass dish had nestled chocolate pie, coconut cream pie, and steaming apple pie. The dish filled my brain with a hundred other aromas—spaghetti, mashed potatoes, candied yams, divinity candy, and spice cake with caramel icing, to name a few. The tangy smell of lemons wafted through my kitchen and carried me back to the small white frame house on Prater Road.

From my earliest memories, I associate Ma with food. In those days, it was a mom’s or grandmother’s best way to communicate love for her family. Though her kitchen was tiny, my brother and I loved to breakfast at the small table, which now serves as a desk in my own kitchen. Nestled in the rear corner of the house, the kitchen boasted two windows allowing sunlight to stream in and make a small space cheery. Ma made homemade biscuits, golden brown with fluffy middles, for us to heap with her milk gravy made from bacon drippings or to butter and slather with honey or red plum jam.

Family gatherings or messy recipes called for an apron, because in Ma’s day, ladies did not wear anything as tacky as sweats around the house. Ma wore aprons she stitched herself, usually from a floral print or plaid fabric dominated by her favorite color, pink. Though I never wear them, I still display two of her aprons.

Standing on a chair in Ma’s kitchen, I helped as she creamed the butter and sugar in her old Hamilton Beach mixer for a moist pound cake. I supervised while she and my granddad Grangie spooned out the divinity candy that had to be cooked on a dry day and tasted as sweet and pillowy as I imagined a cloud would.

My brother and I, spending nearly every Friday night of our childhood at Ma and Grangie’s house, thrilled when we heard and smelled the buttermilk-and-flour- dipped fried chicken sizzling behind the kitchen’s swinging door. The Colonel had nothing that compared to Ma’s fried chicken, nor did he serve those freshly snapped Kentucky Wonder beans with the October bean “shellies” that Ma simmered for hours on the stove. Oh, the glorious fluff of her mashed potatoes!

Before the time of electric ice cream freezers, Grangie hand cranked the homemade fresh strawberry ice cream that Ma whipped up with smashed fresh strawberries, milk, eggs, sugar, and vanilla. We could hardly wait for the paddle to come out to scrape it with our fingers and taste the strawberry creaminess.

Everything tasted better at Ma’s—even the store-bought foods.”

— Karen Phillips from Project Keepsake

Yes, there are other cooking-related keepsakes referenced in the collection. Jean Lowrey wrote a story about a spoon her grandmother used to stir custard. Mitzi Boyd wrote a story about her Nanny's cake pan. Marcia Swearingen wrote about a big green mixing bowl she received as a wedding gift. I talked to another writer yesterday who said, "I have my mother's pickled eggs crock." And then last night, I selected a knife from my utensil drawer to slice a peach and realized that it had belonged to my father-in-law, George. He was an excellent cook and we inherited many treasures from the cabinets of his large kitchen in Chattanooga.

If you have a cooking-related or kitchen-related keepsake, please share your story with me. Leave a comment or send me a note. And as always, thank you for reading my blog and thinking about keepsakes. To read more keepsake stories, buy a copy of my book, Project Keepsake.

Priscilla Hooked Me Like A Fish

Pris Shartle wrote a keepsake story about a gold bangle bracelet her mother wore around her wrist. 

Great writers know how to grab your attention from the very first words of their story. It’s called the hook—like the readers are fish swimming around in a murky pond who pause to read the first words of a story only to be hooked. The writer reels them in and carries them home for supper.

Some of the stories in Project Keepsake start with a bang. I’ve always loved the way Priscilla Shartle started her story, “Mama’s Gold Bangle Bracelet.” She used powerful dialogue between her and her sister to create upfront drama. Her words demand immediate attention, and readers can’t look away. Pris also crafted a beautiful transition to the body of her story. Here’s an excerpt.

“Mama’s dead!”

For a few seconds I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or awake. I remember hearing the telephone ring and glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It was 7:30 a.m., Monday, April 1, 1991. It was my sister’s voice on the other end of the line, but surely Mama wasn’t dead.

“What do you mean, Mama’s dead?” I asked. The telephone seemed to weigh a ton as I held it tightly to my ear.

“Well, I think she is,” Lindy added.

I thought, “This is an April Fool’s joke, and not a funny one.”

Finally I got her to tell me that Daddy had called her and said Mama had died in her sleep. Lindy was at my parents’ apartment in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I was in Winston-Salem, North Carolina at my home.

“Have you seen Mama?” I asked.

Lindy replied, “No.”

My frustration and fear of what she was saying began to sink in and my temper flared. I screamed into the phone, ordering my sister to go see and make sure Mama really was dead.

The tears came once I boarded the airplane headed to Baton Rouge. The flight attendants were kind and tried to console me, but I could not stop crying.

My mother was a beautiful woman who lived a tormented life of alcohol and prescription drug abuse, but she did so in a functioning manner so as to give me and my brother and sister a fairly normal life—when she wasn’t drinking. The last twenty years of her life were sober and happy ones filled with love for her friends, family and grandchildren.

As far as I knew, Mama was not ill. Why would she die in her sleep, and why would she die without telling me good-bye? I was her oldest child and my questions came from my heart.

After the funeral and days of cleaning out her drawers and closet, Daddy became very possessive of Mama’s personal things. He said, “Take all the costume jewelry you want, but I keep the good jewelry.”

We obeyed, and Mama’s jewelry sat in her red leather jewelry case for the next twenty years.
”

— Priscilla Shartle from "Mama's Gold Bangle Bracelet"

Pris, like so many other Project Keepsake contributing writers, is a member of the Chattanooga Writers Guild, a nonprofit group that promotes, encourages and supports the craft of quality writing and creates a supportive environment for writers in the greater Chattanooga community. If you live around Chattanooga or Northwest Georgia, I encourage you to join the CWG. It’s a great way to meet other writers in the area.

After Project Keepsake was published and my box of paperbacks arrived, I met Pris on the side of the road in Kennesaw, Georgia and hand-delivered her copy to her. She was as bright and bubbly as always.

Thank you, Pris, for sharing your keepsake story with me and other readers. I look forward to reading other stories from your life.

To read more stories from Project Keepsake, please consider buying a copy. Visit the BUY page and find a bookseller near you.

Raffle, Raffle, Raffle—Happy Anniversary!

Happy Anniversary, Native Ink Press! Congratulations, Ashley!

Congratulations Native Ink Press! Congratulations Ashley Howie! We are celebrating my publisher's anniversary, and what better way to celebrate a publisher's anniversary than to give away a bunch of  book-related prizes?

The list of prizes is an impressive one. If you want in on the raffle to win free books, gift cards, and prizes, click the link to enter at http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/6860335/  Hurry up—the raffle's deadline is August 5.

The prizes include:

—A $25 B&N gift card,
—A signed copy of Project Keepsake,
—A beautiful writer's journal,
—A $15 iTunes gift card,
—A horse painting
—Signed copies of several books including Scream If You Wanna Go Faster, Daemon Theory, The Coat, Incredible Edible Meg, Celestina Silvenfare: The Legend Begins, Return of the Star Ancestor, and Polar Night, and 
—Three original cover art works by Hargrove Perth

Phyllis Freeman's Old Crank Telephone

I love old stuff—old songs, old quilts, old cars, old letters, old books, old people (especially old men), etc. I suppose I am somewhat of a retrophiliac, a person who has a strong passion for things from the past. I also love hearing the histories behind objects, and so that makes me a bit of a palaeophile, too.

And so when Phyllis Freeman sent me a story about an old, crank telephone, I couldn't wait to add it to Project Keepsake.

Phyllis Qualls Freeman wrote a lovely story about an old, crank telephone that she and her husband have had for years. Her story begins on page 219 of Project Keepsake.

In the Seventies, my family gathered around our big, boxy television set and watched the weekly episode of "The Waltons." I loved John Boy (played by Richard Thomas), not only because he was a handsome, kind young man, but also because he was a writer and so devoted to capturing all of the family stories—something I was interested in doing, too. I remember several episodes showing John Boy or one of the other members of the Walton clan at Ike Godsey's General Store yelling into a wooden contraption mounted on the wall—an old, crank-style telephone. Phyllis' story reminded me of that phone.

I don't actually remember the crank style telephones. Both sets of my grandparents had already graduated to sophisticated rotary dial phones by the time I came along and began plundering around their homes. Remember those? To dial a particular phone number, you inserted a finger in the hole that designated a particular number, and moved the dial clockwise around to a metal stop. When you removed your finger, the dial would spin counter-clockwise back to its original position. 

I worked with a young woman a few of years ago, and at some point I asked her to "dial a number for me." She obliged and called someone for me using the touchtone phone in her office. Afterwards, she said, "I wonder where that phrase comes from—dial a number..."

Thank you, Phyllis!  Thanks for sharing TWO wonderful keepsake stories, and thanks for your love and encouragement throughout the process.

I looked at her in disbelief, quickly did the math in my head, and realized she was probably born in the mid 1980s. It was feasible to assume she had never seen or used a rotary style phone in her lifetime. I explained the terminology to her and she looked at me like I was a relic from the past (which I am, I guess).

But back to Phyllis and her story... Phyllis contributed two pieces to the first collection of keepsake stories. She also writes devotionals and has contributed articles to Chicken Soup for the Soul. She's an excellent writer and a very dear friend.

Her story about the old, crank telephone starts on page 219 of Project Keepsake. I love the names Phyllis used in her story—Myrtle, Minnie, and Ola. Enjoy this excerpt.

“While I fought the battle of ticks, Uncle Harvey showed Bill his collection of antique phones. Uncle Harvey opened up the body of each phone, placed a radio inside, and sold the unit as a phone-radio. He offered to do this for my husband, but Bill wanted the phone in its original condition. My husband selected an early 1900s’ model and carried it to the car with pride. The beautiful oak piece held a prominent place in our small home. Now, almost fifty years later, we still have the lovely chunk of history.

Through the years, so many of our friends lifted the ear piece (with the old cord still attached), rang the bell, and pretended to talk to the operator.

Why would someone want to keep an outdated, non-working piece of wood? Memories.

I have a few memories of my Grandmother Qualls using a similar antique crank phone. Bbrriinnggg, bbrriinnggg . Yes, you rang the bell to talk to the operator.

“Hello, Myrtle, please ring Ola Duncan.”

“Oh, hello Miss Minnie. Everyone at your house okay?” the operator would ask.

“Fine, Myrtle. Just get Ola, please.”

Granddaddy Qualls was issued a telephone, similar to the one we obtained, by the fire fighter’s service in the 1930s, when he was the warden of forest fires for Perry County, Tennessee. Granddaddy’s phone’s ring was two short rings and a long one. He had a crew of eight to ten neighbor men who were on his team.

When the lookout man in the tower rang the Qualls’ farmhouse to say there was a nearby blaze, Aunt Mona rode the mule to notify some of the men while Granddaddy roused others to help fight the fire. The men walked miles carrying their fire-rakes to the burning field or farm. They used heavy-handled rakes to clean out small brush and bushes to keep the fire from spreading. Sometimes they stayed at the site of the fire for days. When the blazes and smoke were safely extinguished, the men walked miles back to their own farms to resume their own work.

Today, Bill and I have moved into the twenty-first century with our own cell phones, but we still like to hear the bbrriinnggg from the old one occasionally. It always elicits a smile.

Since we relocated to Hixson, Tennessee, our new friends and those of Kent and Daris sometimes crank the phone just to listen to the bell’s buzzy ring. It’s a friendly ring with memories attached, and I hope it will bring a smile as it rings on for another century.”

— Phyllis Qualls Freeman from Project Keepsake

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Project Keepsake is on sale right now! FREE shipping and handling! Great gift item, especially for the holidays. Buy it right here right now, and I'll throw in a free bookmark.

Happy Birthday, Nancy Ratcliffe!

Today, I give a shout out to birthday girl and Project Keepsake story contributor, Nancy Ratcliffe. Nancy shares a birthday with baseball great Shoeless Joe Jackson and comedian Will Ferrell of Saturday Night Live fame (the guy who parodied George W. Bush, posed as a cheerleader with Cheri Oteri, and starred with Christopher Walken in one of my favorite SNL skits, "NEED MORE COWBELL."

Happy Birthday, Nancy! Thank you for your friendship, and thank you for being part of Project Keepsake!

I got to know Nancy a few years ago when I began working with Habitat for Humanity of Gordon County. As she and I talked one day, I told her about my idea to collect stories about keepsakes.  A few weeks later, she sent her story to me with a lovely photo of her keepsakes—two pieces of whimsical carnival glass.

Like some of my favorite writers, Nancy has a folksy, but polished, writing style and voice. Her story instantly won me over with mentions of the Goatman and reaching under a tablecloth to grab a stale biscuit cooked earlier in the day. Although Nancy is a few years older than me and although she grew up in a completely different region of Georgia, I share these memories with her—they connect us, in a way.

I vaguely remember sitting in heavy traffic on Highway 247 just south of Macon when I was about four years old (circa 1969), waiting for the Goatman (Ches McCartney) to pass through the area. He, his bizarre entourage of goats, and his junky wagon had stopped and slowed traffic that day. It was summer, and my mom and I baked in the oven-like car, even with the windows rolled down. Mom looked over at me that day and said, "I don't know why traffic has stopped. It's either a wreck or the Goatman." I was unfamiliar with the Goatman, and so I envisioned a mythological creature—a half man, half goat being—thirsty for the blood of a little blonde-headed girl. I was terrified—sweat rolling down my freckled face.

Photo by Sam Ratlcliffe. Nancy Ratcliffe's beloved Carnival Glass—an heirloom passed to her from her Grandmother Emma (Emma Ralston Duvall). Her story starts on page seventy-three of Project Keepsake. 

And Nancy's stale biscuits reference reminds me of visiting my Grandmother Lanier's house outside of Metter, Georgia. After breakfast, she, too, would cover the leftovers with a thick cotton tablecloth to protect the food from bold, black house flies. When my siblings and I got hungry, we ran into her old farmhouse kitchen, helped ourselves to whatever was under the cloth, then raced back outside to resume whatever we were doing before our break. On a side note, I was a really skinny little girl, and Grandmother Lanier was always pushing food my way saying, "I think you must have worms." Thanks for that, Grandmother! Your statement scarred me for life.

But back to Nancy's story—I also love the fact that Nancy's keepsakes didn't appeal to her at first. Some times the passage of time, and the passing of loved ones, transform simple objects into priceless keepsakes. I've learned this lesson in my own lifetime.

"Carnival Glass" starts on page seventy-three of the book. Here's an excerpt:

“The shiny treasures didn’t really seem like treasures to me more than thirty years ago when I was presented with them. Shortly after my wedding, my mother and father visited my oldest first cousin, and before the end of their time together, she handed them a shoebox tied together with twine.

“This is Nancy’s wedding present,” Cousin Bonnie said. “I’ve had these since Grandma died because I was the oldest, and now that Nancy’s married, it’s her turn to have them. After all, she’s named after Grandma: Nancy Emma.”

A few days later, my mother gave me the box. I was anxious to discover the contents—until I saw them.

“What is this?” I asked examining the two pieces of dark purple glassware. I had no idea the purpose of either piece, and nothing in our apartment matched the rather strange colors.

“I remember when Grandma bought those,” my father said. “We were living at Curryville in Gordon County, and she got those from the rolling store.”

Though I wasn’t old enough to have ever shopped from the rolling store, I had always been fascinated by the idea of a traveling merchant and his wares since we visited an elderly relative in Kentucky’s coal-mining country whose store was still parked in his yard long after he had given up his route. Most of what was left in the dilapidated truck was a combination of castoffs from their home and some Watkins products like liniment and vanilla flavoring. That image, along with the times I had seen the Goatman and his wagonload of treasures bring traffic to a standstill on Georgia’s Highway 41, made me more interested in my father’s recollection.

“I think she must have bought those about 1914, when I was about five years old,” my dad recalled. “She saved and saved to buy those. I think she must have paid five or ten cents for each piece, which was a small fortune back then.”

He pointed to one of the objects.

“This little thing that looks like a vase is a hatpin holder,” he explained.

I picked-up the other piece. It looked like a candy dish with a lid.
“And that’s a jelly jar,” he continued. “Before refrigeration, jellies stayed on the table between meals.”

I nodded with understanding. Even in my childhood, Aunt Mell, one of the last of the great farm wives, had simply spread a tablecloth over the leftovers that wouldn’t spoil. Anytime I visited, I peered under the cloth and filched one of her cold homemade biscuits for a snack.”

— Nancy Ratcliffe, from Project Keepsake

Happy Birthday, Nancy! I'm so glad we are friends! And thank you for sharing your story!

Black Swank Trifold

Since Project Keepsake was published in February, several men readers have remarked, “I don’t have keepsakes—that’s kind of a ‘woman’ thing.”

Au contraire! Twelve of the fifty-five keepsake stories in the first collection were penned by men. My husband, Gene, has a few keepsakes he stores in a Lundstrum stacking mission-style lawyers' bookcase in his office. My brother, Andy, has one keepsake that I know of, and if I plundered around his house, I bet I could find more. Yes, men have keepsakes.  They may not talk about them a lot, but men keep things.

So today, I cast a light on a man’s keepsake and keepsake story.

Ed's story is about a wallet and the kindness of a stranger. "Black Swank Wallet" begins on page 252.

I first heard Ed Huey tell his keepsake story while at a gathering at Jane Starner’s riverside condo just north of Chattanooga. He delivered a short summary while I ate salad and sipped wine. Ed’s keepsake is a wallet that belonged to his father. His story tells the tale of a broken family, a son’s sadness, and the kindness of a stranger. 

“Oh wow! You’ve got to write that story down,” I said afterwards.

But Ed’s a busy guy—he’s a thriving blues musician with dozens of irons in the fire all the time. He teaches music. He plays music. He’s recorded songs and documented conversations with Mississippi blues greats. He even played the part of a dead body in an independent film a few years back—a performance worthy of an Academy Award, I might add. Plus, he and his beautiful and multitalented wife, Sharon Huey, had recently moved to Natchitoches, Louisiana, so I didn’t think that Ed would ever be able to carve out the time to write his story down on paper for me, or for anyone else. But I was wrong.

When Ed learned that I needed one more story for the book, he sat down and wrote “Black Swank Trifold” and sent it to me with a lovely note.

I am a rather stoic gal—a hard-as-nails, female Mr. Spock, of sorts. I rarely show emotion unless someone is sick or dead or I have been pushed to an extreme limit, but Ed’s kindness and his story evoke strong emotions in me.

His story begins on page 252 of Project Keepsake. Enjoy!

“My father died of a heart attack at a traffic light in Monroe, Louisiana. His divorce from my mother and marriage to his third wife caused a bitter rift in the family that was never repaired. My sister and I were never offered any of his belongings after his death.

When the phone rang the caller asked, “Is this Mr. Lynn E. Huey, Jr.?”

I said to myself, “Telemarketer, what do you want? How did you get my number? And why are you calling me?” I went into defense mode.

“Are you Lynn Huey? Please don’t hang up, I have something that belongs to you.”

I was angry now, the gall!

“My name is Michael. I found your father’s wallet. I’ve been contacting all the Lynn Hueys I could find. When I found Lynn Huey, Jr., I had a feeling.”

Michael said he was in Melbourne, Florida browsing an antique toy store and saw a wallet on a shelf for $10. Strange offering for a toy store. He opened it and found identification, family pictures, membership cards, even a voter registration card for Lynn E. Huey. He thought it very curious that an intact billfold was in a location so remote from the address listed on the driver’s license, Bossier City, Louisiana, but he replaced it on the shelf and left the store.

As he reached the sidewalk, Michael kept thinking about the billfold. He couldn’t let it go. That billfold belonged to someone. He went back and purchased the item. There must be some way to restore it to the Huey family, he thought. Now he had finally called the right Lynn Huey.

Memories flooded my senses. I was speechless for several seconds. When I found the words, I told Michael I did not have anything that belonged to my father. The next few seconds Michael was silent. Then, in an choked-up voice, he said, “Well, Mr. Huey, I have something very special for you, today. Something that belonged to your father.”

He told me about the items in the billfold, a picture of my son, an appointment card for the cardiologist and other things that verified that this was in fact my father’s billfold.

When Michael mailed the parcel, he related the story to the UPS store manager. UPS insisted on participating in the restoration of the billfold to the Huey family as a gift. The package was sent at no charge.

The swank, genuine cowhide, trifold, black billfold with the accordion card windows arrived. All available card windows were occupied with his current driver’s license, employment photo ID, Masonic Lodge card, golf club membership, bank ID, family pictures of his mother, current wife, me, grand sons, assorted reminders for medical appointments. All up to date for 1974. I was looking directly into Lynn Edmond Huey’s face, a moment rescued from 1974. I had not seen him or any of his belongings since October 1974. Michael M. walked into an antique toy store in Melbourne, Florida in October 2010, saw this object on a shelf, purchased it, and sent it to me!

Michael enclosed this letter:

October 21, 2010

Mr. Huey,

In life we all have angels that watch over us, wherever we go and whatever we do. Also in life there are times where a stranger will pop into your life and change things, even just a little, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. This time, was for the better.

Today, I found something that belongs to your family and I did not believe that it was right to to leave it on that shelf in that store. It belongs in your home, in your hands. When you said that you do not have anything of your father’s, I choked up a little, and I knew I did the right thing. Sorry it took me so long to find it, but today, as you read this, you hold in your possession the very thing that your father took with him everywhere. It has his important identifications, and most of all, his pictures of what I am thinking are your kids. Here are the details about how this came about, I am sure you will want to tell this story to family, I found this at an old antique toy store in Melbourne, Florida on 10-21-2010. I contacted a Lynn Huey in Alabama, a female, and she said that she was married into the Huey family, but has no relation. Then I went to the white pages and found you, Jr., and had a good feeling that you are who I needed to speak with.

My father is my best friend and I know one day I will have to say goodbye to him. That will be a sad day. Today, you can say hello again to yours, through memories, and keep a part of him with you forever.

Thank you for not hanging up the phone today and God Bless you and your family.

Sincerely,

Michael M.

I will never know how my daddy’s billfold came to be in Melbourne, Florida, but I know how it came to Chattanooga, Tennessee.

Thank you Michael.”

— Ed Huey, "Black Swank Trifold" from Project Keepsake

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The Castanets by Debbie Dickson

My brother introduced me to Debbie Dickson a few years ago, and I loved her immediately.  But then again, everyone loves Debbie. She is one of those people who instantly blends into a family or group of friends like she's been part of the group forever—like an old friend or a beloved family member you don't see very often.

"They became fixtures of my youth. Even when my sister and I were grown and had children of our own, our children would find a pair in my parents’ home, walk over to my mother and plead, “Show me how, Grandma.” —Debbie Dickson, "The Castanets," page 264 of Project Keepsake

After Debbie learned that I was collecting keepsake stories for a book, she said, "I have a story I'd like to share." A few weeks later, I received her nearly-perfect first draft—a story about castanets, but in reality, the story is about her mother, Joy Schwamb Dickson, who taught school in the Wilcox County school system for years and years.

For those of you who don't know, castanets are those wooden percussion instruments used in Spanish music. They consist of pairs of hollowed-out pieces of wood joined on one edge by a string. Musicians and dancers hold the castanets in their hands and produce those intriguing, rhythmic, clicking sounds. Debbie's mother used castanets to teach Spanish to her students and her grandchildren, so they were always scattered about the house.

Joy Dickson and two other teachers (Ms. Harden and Lucia Rutland) from the Wilcox County School System in Georgia. Notice Joy's beautiful beehive hairdo. 

In her story, Debbie reminisces about her mother's love of teaching, how her mother loved and believed in her students, her mom's beehive hairdo, and her mom's arduous battle with breast cancer. It's a beautiful story—a beautiful tribute piece. I am thankful I met Debbie, and I am thankful that through Debbie's storytelling, I got to know a little bit about her mother.

Here's an excerpt from Debbie's story.  Purchase your own copy of Project Keepsake to read all of Debbie's story and other stories about keepsakes and the stories that give simple objects life and meaning. 

“But the second year of her battle was different—it was much more difficult. Mom decided it was finally time to pass the teaching torch on to a predecessor. But retiring from teaching left a hole in her heart, and she sorely missed her students.

One day several months later, I walked through Mom’s room while she napped and witnessed her—eyes closed, right hand held high with index finger pointing into the air—correcting her students in her sleep.

“NO, NO, NO!” she said with a smile.

Even as cancer ravaged her body, she continued to teach in her dreams using perfect Spanish and accent, which was all she allowed spoken in her classroom after the first few classes. I saw her teaching in her sleep often that year—watched her hands working an imaginary pair of castanets. It was a true testament of her love of being an educator.

Years have passed since I lost my mother, yet I still feel her presence all around me, especially when I see her castanets, which Dad still keeps around the house. When I see them, I remember their click, click, click and the perfection of Mom’s voice. I see clearly the memory of her teaching her grandchildren how to speak and how to play. And I’m reminded of her boundless love of teaching—a calling that brought joy to her glorious life for so many years.”

— Debbie Dickson, "The Castanets"

My Revelation

I designed another graphic to communicate with the world yesterday. Savvy internet users and social media gurus call these graphics, "memes," derived from the words—mimicked and theme. Most memes are funny or edgy.  However, my meme is serious and inspirational, designed to help me publicize Project Keepsake.

Memes and dreams and themes...

I think that the meme captures the premise of my book—that everyone has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell.  This simple revelation prompted me to collect and publish stories about keepsakes, memories, histories, people, places, and thoughts. 

I rarely like photos of myself, but I love this photo, taken by my friend and fellow writer Misty Watson.  We met briefly at a small prayer garden adjacent to a church in Dalton to shoot a few photos for an article that appeared in the May/June issue of Dalton Magazine.  It was a perfect spring day—sunlight dancing around us, a light breeze on our faces, and the dogwoods were putting on a show screaming at passersby, "Look at us! Look at us!" Misty snapped shots of me holding various keepsakes from my collection.

This particular photo showcases five of my keepsakes.  The glass bluebird sun catcher is front and center, but I want to direct your attention to the other four treasures hidden in the photo—the dented, silver locket my Grandmother Jarriel gave me for Christmas forty years ago, the silver Celtic knot ring that I purchased from a street vendor in Glasgow, Scotland years ago, the platinum hoop earrings Gene gave me on our twentieth wedding anniversary, and the pearl engagement ring—an heirloom from my husband's family—I wear on my left ring finger.  Each of these keepsakes holds powerful memories. Each has its own story.

I know you have a keepsake—or two, or three, or more. I bet you have something that reminds you of a loved one, a significant moment, or a place you don't want to forget. From my perspective, mementoes, souvenirs, and heirlooms are all keepsakes.

Tell me about one of the sacred remnants of your life. Select a keepsake and tell me the story.  You can do it!

A Family of Storytellers

The genetic markers of storytelling are sprinkled throughout my DNA. I'm sure of it.

My grandparents, my aunts, my uncles, and my parents were some of the finest people I’ve ever known, and moreover, most of them were prodigious storytellers. My maternal grandmother (Ona Jarrard Jarriel) was a repository of family stories. I was a thirsty child, and listening to her was like drinking water from a well. My mother’s brothers told tales filled with long pauses, sailor-worthy cuss words, and comical observations. At family gatherings, I sat at their sides and absorbed their stories—hanging on their every word. I quietly studied their delivery and hoped some day, I, too, would master the art of weaving and telling a tale with such panache and flair.

Join my crusade to keep storytelling alive by writing a story today and sharing this poster. Thanks!  —Amber

My paternal grandfather, Henry Herman Lanier, told my siblings and me larger-than-life stories of Old Moe, an elusive bass that reigned supreme in Papa's small pond near Metter, Georgia—the proverbial "big fish in a small pond." Our imaginations ran wild, and we spent the days of our childhoods trying to hook that giant fish from the grassy banks. In the evenings, we retreated to the cool breeze of a small covered porch that overlooked a grove of crepe myrtle trees showcasing fuchsia blooms and chandeliers of Spanish moss. There, we rocked, swung, and listened to volumes of family histories, local folklore, rumors, memories, and the stories passed from one generation to another.

I was a little blonde-headed girl drawn to stories and books, especially picture books with their whimsical characters and illustrations. I loved the way books felt in my small hands and the way the pages smelled. I loved the public library, which was connected to our local recreation department. We always followed a trip to basketball practice with a visit to the library. Afterwards, I skipped to the car with an armful of picture books and a big smile on my freckled face—such happy memories. 

As a teenager, reading novels such as A Separate Peace, Of Mice and Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Catcher in the Rye hooked me forever. I feasted on the quirky tales of Flannery O’Connor and felt a special bond with her and her Southern-fried characters. 

As a young adult, my attraction to stories and my appetite for reading evolved into the desire to write and tell my own stories, but I did not pursue a career in writing—not then.  Writing came later for me, as a second career—my "act two," as I like to call it.

Today, I worry that storytelling is dying like other art forms such as tatting, sewing, printmaking, hand lettering, and string puppetry, and so I advocate for storytelling. As I travel around Georgia promoting Project Keepsake, I stand before crowds and talk about the importance of sharing stories with others. 

I urge my audiences to tell the stories that matter. "Be fearless," I say. "Free the stories trapped inside you. Preserve your stories by writing them down. Share them with others."

Please join me in my crusade to keep storytelling alive.  Write a story today. Share my meme with your family and friends on Facebook and other social media outlets. And if you are on Twitter, please use the hashtags #amwriting, #keepstorytellingalive, and #projectkeepsake to communicate to the world how you are helping to promote the endangered art of storytelling. And don't forget to share your thoughts with me. I'm at @AmberLNagle.

Rest in Heavenly Peace, Mariah

I am saddened to learn of the death of Mariah Fulton.

I never met Mariah in person.  She and I corresponded only through email messages and one brief phone call. Yet, I felt I knew her from the keepsake story she shared with me two years ago. Mariah crafted a poetic story about her music box and allowed me to publish it in Project Keepsake. Her story begins on page 132.

Mariah Fulton's keepsake story titled, "The Music Box," starts on page 132 of Project Keepsake.

Prior to publication, I asked Mariah to send me a byline. She described herself as “a retired teacher who cares for rescue animals and travels abroad as often as possible with family and friends. She is careful to maintain ancient friendships, and when her health permits, is active in her writing group. Over the years she has volunteered with several organizations and has enjoyed her association with Metropolitan Ministries since 2008.”

As a tribute to Mariah, I am printing her story, "The Music Box," in its entirety on today's blog. I've loved the story since the first time I read it. I can visualize her communicating with Christopher via her music box—the notes of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" bouncing down the hospital hallway and interrupting the loneliness and isolation of the children's ward.

A special thanks to my friend, Janie Watts Spataro, for encouraging Mariah to write her music box story and share it with me. 

And thank you, Mariah, for contributing so much goodness to this world. We will miss your light. —Amber

“A round music box that easily fits in the palm of my hand sits on a shelf in my son’s old room that is now occupied by my computer. Its metal casement is the color of cinnamon. The topside showcases a faded scene of a lady insect performing her morning ablutions. She perches on a rock rising from a stream, her wide wings stretching down towards the water. On a tree branch above her stands another insect who pours a pitcher of water over the bathing insect’s head. A black wind-around handle is secured at the top of this picture, the knob still showing traces of its original blue.

Another sketch adorns the underside—a tea-stained sketch of a large bird whose chest is greatly expanded. He, perhaps she, holds a sheet of music before his open beak and trills the song, “Morgen Kommt der Weihnachtsmann.” The tune most of us know as “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”

My father found this music box in rubbled but recovering Germany on his first business trip there in 1948. I chose it along with my stuffed white Persian cat to accompany me to Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore during the spring of my fourth grade year. I stayed there ten days for a complete check-up following two extended illnesses. The pediatrician in charge of my case was a woman, unusual in those times, named Dr. Guile.

The first night, I was assigned to a bed in a large room with other children. My mother was not allowed to stay with me nor could I play my music box. Though I was weary from the overnight train ride, I found it difficult to sleep. I held both my cat and the box close throughout those long alone hours.

The next day, the hospital staff moved me to a private room. Mama stayed with me for a day or two, but then returned home to North Carolina to look after my brothers while my father was away on another business trip.

The morning following Mama’s departure seemed endless. My only company was a book, my cat, my music box, and one of several nurses who checked my vital signs from time to time and brought in meals. In those days nurses wore crisp white uniforms, white stockings and shoes, and white stand-up hats with black ribbons that denoted their rank. I felt secure being in the hands of well-trained professionals. They gave me permission to play my music box, and in the afternoon, I repeatedly turned the little knob and sang its tune softly.

The next day I read for a while, then went with a nurse for various tests. Back again in my room I entertained myself with several turns of the music box. Suddenly I stopped, thinking that I heard a melody coming from the hall outside my room. I tiptoed to the door but saw no one. Returning to my bed I played again, and as I ended the song I heard the reply again. I knew absolutely that another music box was answering. This exchange continued for several minutes. When my tune heard no answer, I played four or five more rounds, but there was only silence.

A nurse walked in to check on me, and I inquired about the mysterious music coming from the hall.

“Did you hear another music box?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “Our entire staff has enjoyed listening to both of you.”

Both? She told me about a young boy two doors down, Christopher Perry, who lived inside an oxygen tent. His heart was very weak, and his mother and father had chartered a plane from Melbourne, Australia to fly him to Baltimore.

The next day his parents entered my room and introduced themselves. I can still see their smiles, remember the gray dress his mother wore, her ash blonde hair that fell in curls to her shoulders, and Mr. Perry dressed in a light colored suit. Their gentle English accent was a delight.

And so I passed the days hoping from hour to hour to hear my new friend’s signal. We began to improvise by playing in various rhythms, or by turning our knobs as quickly as we could, or as slowly, slowly as a tune could be plucked and still know itself. On the occasional day that no answer came, I asked the night nurse to stay a little longer before turning off the light. I wanted special time with my adult caretaker, but I also needed to ask new and troublesome questions about death.

The day that Mama returned, Christopher felt strong enough to answer my call, and we improvised for many minutes. Mama walked down the hall to introduce herself to the Perry family, and they quickly bonded.

My departure date finally arrived, and before the nurse wheeled me to the elevator she brought Mama and me to the door of Christopher’s room. I said hello and waved to him and to his parents who were standing by his bed. Through his tent window, I could see that he closely resembled his mother. As ill as he was, he smiled and lifted his small hand from the bedcovers. It held his music box.

Our families agreed to keep in touch, and for several years his sister, Jane, and I corresponded. Her letters and a large picture of Christopher are stored among decades of accumulations in my attic.

This very small music box accompanied me to college, on my five-year stay in Europe, to various states when I returned to America for good, throughout my married years, and into old age. Whenever events diverted my life from its carefully crafted flow and I felt isolated, my aging music box nudged loneliness and reminded me of the important lesson from childhood—connection and comfort arrive in many guises. ”

— Mariah Fulton

To read, Mariah Fulton's obituary, click here.

Queen Tut

During National Library Week, the public library in Dalton invited me and other Project Keepsake story contributors to attend a reception.  I invited members of the community and encouraged them to bring one of their own keepsakes from home. I was thrilled when Tut McFarland walked through the door that evening.

Tut McFarland shares one of her keepsake stories.

In her nineties now, Gertrude "Tut" McFarland is a keepsake, in her own right.  Decades ago, she graduated from LaGrange College where she majored in speech and theatre. She performed at the famed Barter Theatre in Virginia, taught private speech lessons, then joined then taught school for years and years at  at Morris Street School in Dalton. 

I met Ms. Tut two years ago when she attended one of my writing workshops in Northwest Georgia.  During the course of the workshop, Tut shared many stories with me. She told me about a "keepsake room" in her house and described some of the historical objects in her possession—a key to an ancestral smokehouse dating back to Civil War days; a primitive tooth extraction tool (a torture devices) passed to her from her grandfather who was a dentist; a dollhouse her father built for her when she was a young girl (he even wired electric lights for it); and a small, dirty, stuffed bunny that reminds her of her teaching days. 

So when Tut strolled into the library that night, I knew we were in for a treat. She stood up, and with the skill of a master raconteur, she held us captive with a few of her keepsake stories. Tut exceeds fabulous—she is Dalton royalty in that she exudes a graceful, elegant panache. Queen Tut!

Trying to capture the moment, I shot a short, wobbly video of Tut with my iPhone that night. In this clip, she tells a tale of a little pink rabbit a student gave to her years ago. Her story is reminiscent of "The Velveteen Rabbit," one of my favorite stories.

I plan to visit Ms. Tut in the future, armed with a smile, a fancy cupcake, and a more professional video camera. I want her to show me around that "keepsake room" as the video recorder rolls. I hope to do that soon—very, very soon.

Please join us. Keep the stories of your lifetime alive by sharing them with others. Don't know where to begin? Start with a keepsake, or two, or three. Buy a copy of Project Keepsake (www.ProjectKeepsake.com) and give it a try. I can help you. —Amber

   

Worth Keeping—A Cover Story

May/June issue of Dalton Magazine

Thanks to Misty Watson for writing about Project Keepsake for the May/June issue of Dalton Magazine.  Misty is a gifted photographer and took the photos herself. Though I hate photos of myself and don't particularly like reading about myself, I am thrilled with Misty's piece and the photos complementing the story.  But, I admit—It's weird to walk by a newsstand and see myself. It will probably be the only time I ever see myself on the cover of a magazine. And I love the subtitle that she suggested for the cover—"Worth Keeping."  That title really says it all.  Thanks Misty and thanks to Dalton Magazine!  Click here to read the article. It starts on page 10.

Heart of Hearts—The Pendant

It was practically a miracle I graduated from college.  My last year at Georgia Tech in Atlanta was a blur of my taking impossible Mechanical Engineering exams, isolating myself in quiet corners of the library, and walking around campus like a zombie (sleep eluded me for most of that last year, and I vowed that if I ever got out of Tech alive, I would never pull an all-nighter ever, ever again).

But something else was going on in my life that year. I carried a dark passenger with me—lugged the passenger around with me to class every day as if I was Atlas carrying the world on my shoulders, dragged the passenger home with me in the evenings like a dead body, and begged the passenger for a few hours of sweet-dream sleep each and every night.  Though I didn’t talk about it much, there were big problems 100 miles away at my home in Bonaire that year.   

A heart-shaped, diamond pendant that my mother and father gave me when I graduated from college. It reminds me that love is "eclipsed" some times by a situation or memory, but the love is always there.

For lack of better words, my father experienced some type of out-of-the-blue midlife crisis that year which led him to leave my mother and me.

He grew distant from us. He showed immeasurable apathy and anger toward us. And then he just stopped coming home. Instead, he chose to spend his nights sleeping underneath the stars at a nearby hunting club or in the company of another woman.

Yes, he stated a reason for leaving, but it was a lame and illogical reason.

My older brother and sister were married and busy with their own lives when the proverbial shit hit the fan. And so, Mom and I tried to handle the situation ourselves, but we failed miserably.

Consumed by the situation, I called home often that year to check on my mother.  She needed a friend, but as a young adult, I didn’t know how to offer the kind of support she needed. I tried, though. On the weekends, I drove home to Bonaire and experienced the loneliness of our home with her. Sometimes my father would make a brief appearance—Mom and I both begging him to stay—and then he would leave again. 

His leaving crushed us. It’s a wound that healed years ago but left really ugly scars on our psyches.

My father returned home later that year, and my parents started the work of rebuilding their relationship. To my knowledge, he never apologized to Mom, and no, he never told me he was sorry. The three of us focused on moving forward.

In the midst of our family’s situation that year, my grades plummeted to an all time low. My parents joined forces and voiced a lot of disappointment, dissatisfaction, and irritation with me, and I understood their frustration.  I, too, was disappointed, dissatisfied, and irritated with myself, but I lacked the energy to pull myself up from the depths. The three of us argued a lot. Some of the arguments were heated and still haunt me. I felt so lost and hollow. For the first time in my life, I felt unloved.

But some how, some way, I graduated. They all came to witness me walk—my brother and his first wife, my sister and her first husband, Grandmother Lanier, Aunt Colleen, Mom, and Daddy. After the commencement ceremony, we dined—as a family—at Red Lobster on Cobb Parkway. My parents beamed with happiness, relief, and pride. But still, I knew I had caused a lot of pain and distress, and so the shame of letting them down still plagued me, even as we sat at the restaurant that day pretending that all was fine.

Amber posing next to Georgia Tech's Ramblin' Wreck after graduating from college.

Mom slid a little wrapped box across the table to me—a graduation gift from her and my dad. The gesture threw me a bit, because it had not occurred to me that they would give me a graduation gift.  They had dished out thousands of dollars for me to go to college and that was more than enough. Plus, I had been a constant source of aggravation to them in the months leading up to my graduation. I felt unworthy of their gift.

The box contained a gold serpentine chain holding a small pendant—twenty-five sparkling diamonds in the shape of a heart. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry I had ever seen, and the symbolism of the heart wasn’t lost on me.

“You’ll always be in our hearts,” Mom said. “We want you to know that no matter where you go in life or what you do, we will always love you.”

I put the necklace around my neck that day, and I felt my parents’ unconditional love once again—as bright, warm, and penetrating as summer sunshine on my bare shoulders. At that moment, I realized their love had been with me all along. It had been temporarily hidden—eclipsed by the sadness and weight of our family’s problems—but it had been there.

The diamond-encrusted heart pendant became a keepsake, and I wore it often in the years that followed my graduation.

Life unfolded for me. I joined the workforce. I got married. My father died. Mom remarried a few years later. Our family experienced divorces, marriages, births, and funerals.  I reinvented myself and launched a new career. 

Mom and I don’t talk about the year of my dad’s midlife crisis very often.  We still don’t really understand what happened that year, or why. But it came up last week after I mentioned a recurring dream to her on the phone. In my dream, I was in college again and it was finals week and I realized that there was a course on my schedule that I hadn’t attended all quarter and I freaked out.

“Sometimes when I dream that dream, I wake up in a cold sweat, realize that it was just a dream, and thank God that I am out of school,” I laughed.

“Dreams are funny, aren’t they?” Mom remarked. “I’d love to really study why we dream the things we dream.”

“Do you have a recurring dream, Mom?” I asked.

She paused then said, “Yes, I dream that your father is walking out of the house and I am running behind him begging him to stay, but he won’t stop.  He just keeps walking away from me. Sometimes the dream is so real that it scares me. I wake up so upset that I can’t go back to sleep. I dream it two or three times each month."

“We actually lived through that,” I said. “That was a really tough time for us.”

We both fell silent on the phone recalling the events. It was as if I relived the entire year in a single moment, and then for the first time in a very long time, I got mad at my father.

"You know what you should do?” I said to my mother. “The next time you have that dream, you should seize control of it and shout, ‘Fine!  Just go!’ Turn around and go back inside the house and never look back. Don’t chase him out the door any more. Just let him leave.”

My anger seemed to come out of nowhere and it made my heart race and my face flush. I got off the phone.

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Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

Shaken by the surge of sudden, unexpected emotion, I paced back and forth on my front porch for a few minutes trying to calm down, but I couldn’t. I took several deep breaths trying to let the feelings go, but they wouldn’t dissipate.

I walked into the house, plucked the diamond pendant from the safety of my jewelry box, and kissed it. I forced myself to focus on the happier memories of my father—and there are hundreds, if not thousands, of happy memories stored in the dark caverns of my mind. I reminded myself of his love—sometimes hidden, eclipsed, broken, and imperfect, but ALWAYS THERE, ALWAYS THERE, ALWAYS THERE—as real to me as the little heart I clutched in my fingertips. I found it hard to put the pendant back in its hiding place that day, but I did. I let it go, and twenty-six years later, I finally let it go.

Young Keepsake Writers

I’ve always enjoyed working with other writers, and this month, I was given the opportunity to work with young writers (teens and young adults) and help them understand the process of writing keepsake stories. Remember the premise of my book—everyone has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell.  Yes, teenagers have keepsakes.  Whether the keepsake is a trophy from playing on a soccer team or a ring a grandmother gave her granddaughter or a dried corsage from last year’s prom or a stuffed animal that’s been loved for years, teens and young adults have mementoes to write about.

With her keepsake, Uni, on her head...

On Monday, April 14, I conducted a teen writing workshop at the Calhoun library for five young women.  I shared many of my writing secrets with them—how to brainstorm effectively, how to organize thoughts, how to free write to get a first draft on paper, and how to revise a story. One of the girls, April, was bubbly and sweet and brought her keepsake to the workshop.

“I call him Uni,” she said balancing a unicorn stuffed with dried beans on her head.  And then she told me that Uni was lost for a very long time, but she eventually found him in a bush outside of her house when some men came to do lawn work for her family. 

Midway through the workshop, I explained “the hook.” 

“That first paragraph has got to grab the reader’s attention,” I said. “I want you guys to think how you will hold the reader’s attention."

“I know how I will hold their attention,” April announced. “I’m going to let Uni tell my story.  It will use Uni’s voice, not mine.”

“Very clever,” I replied, impressed with her creativity and her fearlessness.

This beautiful young writer told me about her keepsake—a stuffed animal she has loved since she was a baby.

I guess that’s the common thread among young writers—some write so boldly that reading their writing makes me ooze with joy.  Others are too concerned about what others might think of their words and experiences.  Getting them over the obstacle of caring what others think is harder than teaching them about the writing process.  Some young writers are fearless, yet others are paralyzed by fear.  I guess, in that respect,  they’re no different than adult writers.

On Thursday, April 17, I gave another writing workshop for young writers in Dalton, Georgia at the public library to commemorate National Library Week. Twenty-four young writers attended, many from Amanda Triplett’s class at Dalton High School. 

At the beginning of the workshop, I witnessed a few teen volunteers show their keepsakes to the other attendees—a ball cap and keys that belonged to a young man’s grandfather, a stuffed animal that traveled all the way from Mexico to Northwest Georgia, a necklace, a backpack hook, etc.

 I explained how to use a bubble diagram to map out a story, and then I said, “Okay, everyone take out a clean sheet of paper and make a bubble diagram of your story.”

I walked around the room and simply couldn’t believe what I saw—two dozen big, sprawling bubble diagrams with words and words and words connected with circles and lines and more words.  This group of teenagers knew what they were doing.  They were masters. Again, the word “fearless” popped into to my mind.

Demi shows off her bubbling skills.

My mind drifted back to high school, and I found myself a little sad that back then, I didn’t have access to a creative writing class.  My high school’s English department focused on reading and appreciating literature with a quick side of three-point essay writing. I contemplated it, and then wondered if taking a formal writing class in my teens would have changed my career trajectory (college to engineer to late-blooming writer). I still wonder.

Later when we started writing first drafts, I roamed the room again and peeked at a few stories.

“I could be witnessing the rise of the next Harper Lee or Stephen King,” I thought to myself.  Yes, they were that good.  I rewarded the teens who shared their work with a handful of jelly beans.  One young man accidentally ate a foul tasting buttered-popcorn-flavored jellybean and promptly spit out the chewed mass onto the table for all of us to see.

And then today, at the request of young CC Burgess, I attended Dalton Middle School and worked with young writers in Ms. Swiney’s class.  Toward the end, I explained how to infuse a story with dialogue to make it more interesting.  I broke the class into six small groups and gave each team a sentence and said, “Now, write some dialogue—a conversation between two people.”

On one team’s sheet, I wrote, “Bob tells Jose how he got a black eye.” I gave this sentence to a group of four boys.  They wrote something like this:

“Hey, what happened to you?” Jose asked. “How did you get that black eye?”

“It’s not really a black eye,” Bob replied. “It’s makeup.  I’m in a play.”

“Oh!  Wow, it really looks real,” Jose said.

I certainly wasn’t expecting that conversation from the boys.  I thought that they would take the easy path and write a conversation revolving around a fight, but no—they surprised me with their creativity.

I gave a group of four girls the following statement: John tells Sarah about seeing a shooting star the night before. Again, I asked that they create dialogue between John and Sarah.  They wrote something like this:

“You’ll never guess what I saw last night,” John said.

“What?” Sarah asked.

“I was in the field and I saw a shooting star go by in the black sky,” John said. “It was beautiful.”

“No you didn’t,” Sarah said. “You were with me last night in the basement doing something illegal.”

Whoa!  Creative? Yes, but now I am concerned about what these young girls are being exposed to in their homes.

To summarize, I love working with writers of all ages and skill levels, but working with young writers is a treat.  They exude energy and spirit.  Their creative juices churn, ferment, and burst out of their bodies in surprising ways, but they need our help. I challenge all of my writer friends to spend more time with young writers and encourage them, nurture them, help them, welcome them into our writing community, and perhaps most of all, let them know that good writing skills will serve them well in life.

Mitzi and her Cake Pan

Mitzi Boyd and I have shared a lot of laughs while working together at the Community Foundation of Northwest Georgia.  Our side discussions have ranged from politics to religion to Seinfeld to philanthropic emergencies to the moronic comments in The Daily Citizen's forum to who performed the best on American Idol during the week. And through the years, she's also shared a few stories from her past with me, prompting me to say, "Wow, Mitzi, you've got to get that story on paper."

Mitzi Boyd with her Nanny's Cake Pan.  Did Nanny leave the magic in the pan?  Read Mitzi's story on page 93 of Project Keepsake to find out.

She would respond, "I've written a little about it already, but you're right, I need to get serious about my writing. I've got to make it a priority."

She has the same problem a lot of us writers have—she just doesn't have an abundance of free time to nurture her personal writing. The will to write is there, but the time is not.

Mitzi attended one of my writing workshops in Dalton a few years ago, and as expected, she was one of the star students of the class. And so when I started collecting stories for Project Keepsake, I asked her to identify one of her keepsakes and write about it for me.

A few weeks later, she handed me two sheets of typed paper—a first draft of her keepsake story. She was nervous about sharing it with me, but it was great. 

Her story about her Nanny's Magic Cake Pan is a lovely tribute to her Nanny Keith. Here's one of my favorite excerpts from Mitzi's story.

“After Nanny’s death, my mother and her siblings began the unavoidable task of dividing her things. I asked for only a few items that I had given to her through the years, and I asked for the cake pan.

It was surrendered without any argument, and frankly, I was surprised that the many years of wonderful cakes did not seem to mean as much to my cousins and siblings as they did to me. Nevertheless, I was thrilled with my treasure. Its shiny dented surface with scratch marks from all those years comforts me. It transports me to a place in my heart filled with love and joy—it takes me back to my childhood.

I was convinced that the secret of Nanny’s extraordinary cakes had to be in the pan. That was the only plausible explanation. The mix came from a box—nothing added to it or taken away—purchased from the local supermarket, so I knew the magic wasn’t in the ingredients. I had watched her make her cakes so many times over the years, and I knew how it was done. Of course, I watched her make dumplings and gravy too, but still can’t make either very well.

And so, it was with some trepidation that I mixed-up my first pound cake to bake in Nanny’s pan. What if I was wrong, and the magic wasn’t in the pan? Would I ever be able to replicate that wonderful sweet, buttery taste that floods my mind with memories if she didn’t leave the magic there?”

— Mitzi Boyd

Great-Grandmother's House Dresses

Late last year, Wallie Waters—my father’s first cousin—contacted me via Facebook and offered me some old clothes that belonged to my great-grandmother. I replied without hesitation, “Yes, I would love to have something that belonged to her. Please hold on to them for me.” 

Maggie Jones Lanier died twenty years before I was born, and so I have no memories of her. Few are alive in my family who possess even a faded photograph or a passed-down story to share with me of her sixty-two years on this pale-blue-dot-of-a-planet. Yet, I came into this world bearing bits and pieces of her DNA. She is part of me, and so I am curious about her—and thankful to her.

My new keepsakes—four of Maggie Jones Lanier's house dresses.

I know that she was born in the spring of 1884 and died in the fall of 1946. I know that she was married to Matthew “Math” Lanier, a tall, skinny man who lived to be ninety-nine, wore a hat, and walked with a cane. 

Maggie and Math shared a life together in a small community just north of Metter, Georgia. Together, they raised my papa (Henry Herman), Ruby, Brooks, Fred, Bonnie, Roland, Hubert, Elese, and Matthew. They are buried in the white, sandy soil of Rosemary Primitive Baptist Church amid hundreds of my paternal ancestors with monuments engraved with surnames such as Lanier, Jones, Daughtry, Parrish, and Donaldson.

At my Aunt Sybol’s ninetieth birthday party earlier this year, Cousin Wallie handed the paper sack to my sister and asked her to deliver the contents to me.

Two weeks later, I stood in my sister’s kitchen and unfolded the top of the sack. My hand reached in and touched the past—four vintage house dresses, a tattered bonnet, and some interesting undergarments, all worn by a woman I never knew personally. The pieces had not been worn for seven decades.

I focused on the house dresses.

Back in the day, women like my great-grandmother were worker bees, and house dresses were the uniforms of their daily lives. Their frocks were designed to be durable, practical, easy to move around in, and easy to launder, but with a touch of femininity. 

My great-grandmother’s dresses show several stains from her daily tasks and chores, and I pondered the origin of each stain.  Perhaps one dress was stained as she used the skirt of it to carry blackberries from the roadside to her kitchen to make a cobbler.  Maybe another stain at a waistband originated from grease popping outward from a black iron skillet as she fried the legs and wings of a young rooster. The brown blob on the backside of one? Maybe an oil stain she acquired leaning against the tractor after carrying a glass of water to my great-grandfather and waiting for him to drink up and hand the glass back to her. I’ll never know how the dresses were stained.  I can only imagine given the little I know of the lives of farm wives during the first half of the twentieth century.

All four of Maggie’s dresses are handmade, and I studied the hand stitching on their undersides. Indeed, my great-grandmother may not have owned a store-purchased dress in her lifetime. It’s plausible.

All four dresses were created with floral fabric, and so for a moment, I contemplated that perhaps I inherited my love of flowers and gardening from this woman. Three are made from a very thin cotton, designed to provide cool comfort during the sweltering summer days common in South Georgia. The fourth is made of a dark printed rayon.

The buttons on a blue and pink dress are exquisite and somewhat unexpected, like pearls resting in the dirt. That particular dress is a bit frillier than the others.  It’s embellished with lace that wants to fall apart in my hand when I touch it. I held it up against my body. Maggie must have been much shorter and thicker than me—and much bustier.

I breathed in the stale aroma of the dress, and my mind raced backward to memories of South Georgia cotton fields that look more like freshly fallen snow; of the feeling of cool, freshly-plowed dirt against my bare feet; of the warmth and weight of handmade quilts on a brisk winter’s morning; of carrying long cane fishing poles up to a pond; and of the intoxicating smell of the inside of a dark, scary tobacco barn.

I stuffed the garments back in the bag and drove home, all the while wondering what I would do with my newest keepsakes.  Would I find a seamstress to alter one for me to wear on occasion? Would I cut the house dresses into squares and make a blanket or quilt? Would I craft a pillow from the floral fabrics? Would I simply stow them in a closet and occasionally take them out and dream of Maggie?

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I washed the house dresses carefully and ironed them on the lowest setting of my iron. I hung them in a breeze on the front porch and watched them dance against the back drop of a beautiful spring day, and I thought, “rebirth.” It’s a common theme of my thoughts—the idea of objects and souls being recycled and born again. 

How will Maggie’s dresses be reborn?  I haven’t decided yet, but they will. They will be transformed into something truly magnificent.

I’m sure that Maggie never imagined that one day, one of her great-granddaughters would want her old stained house dresses—that the youngest granddaughter of her oldest son would label her garments as “keepsakes,”  vow to care for them for the rest of her days, and write about them and their significance. But that is precisely what has happened. And each time I look at them, I will mouth a silent “thank you” to Maggie Jones Lanier for giving life to my grandfather, who gave life to my dad, who gave life to me.

Blue Plate Special

Jane Starner shot into my life like a comet.  I happened to sit beside her at a Chattanooga Writers Guild (CWG) workshop a few years ago, and we began talking about writing and an array of other topics. I soon learned that she has many gifts and that she spends her time doing interesting, soulful activities.

Jane Starner with her beautiful cobalt blue plate.  Her story begins on page 69.

She is a retired English and drama teacher with a following—a fan club, of sorts—of former students who adore her. She's carved whimsical carousel animals at a Chattanooga carving school. She travels abroad to interesting destinations. She's volunteered at the Hunter Museum of Art. She completed a memoir titled, My Indiana Childhood, for her family. She writes impressive children's books (one of my favorites is about a mystical heron).  She writes delightful poetry that makes me want to write poetry, too. She creates bold, colorful art. She's even met John Irving, author of A Prayer for Owen Meany and other bestselling novels. I could go on, but you get the idea.

During the workshop, Jane shared with me that she regularly attended the CWG's Memoir Writers Group read and critique meetings. I joined the Memoir Writers Group, too, and had the pleasure of listening to Jane read many of her stories aloud. She's a phenomenal storyteller and writer, and still, she is an even better friend.

Jane was one of the first people to contribute a story to Project Keepsake. She encouraged me for months to keep collecting stories. And when my search for a publisher finally ended last summer, Jane was among the first of friends and family members to call and congratulate me.

Jane's story, "Blue Plate Special," begins on page sixty-nine. I've always loved her story, just as I love the woman who penned it. Enjoy this excerpt from Jane's story.

“In our home, birthdays were never a huge event. No clowns. No pony rides. No parties with crepe paper streamers and balloons. No matching paper tablecloths and napkins. No upright piano—not even an out-of-tune one with yellowed keys. Instead, on our birthdays, the blue plate appeared, holding a homemade, perhaps lopsided, cake with icing and candles, a rarity during the war years when sugar was rationed. I licked the icing from the face of the blue woman before washing the plate in the sink and replacing it in the hutch cupboard.

We never questioned the identity of the stern woman on the plate, but she stared out at us, surrounded by three circles embossed on the blue. Her name, “Frances E. Willard,” was barely legible below the dates “1839-1939.” I wondered about this unsmiling woman with hair pulled into a bun. Connie said that Willard was once president of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) and was active in the woman’s suffrage movement. She was also president of a women’s college in Chicago and the first dean of women when Northwestern University admitted women.

Grandmother received the set of plates in gratitude for her work in the Indiana chapter of the WCTU and in the suffrage movement. At that time, activists believed if women were allowed to vote, prohibition could become law.

Perplexed, I mused on how little we know of others—even relatives. Grandmother was a plain woman who wore dark clothes, cotton hose, sensible shoes, and no makeup. For church, she added a lace collar and a simple brooch. When cooking, she pinned a calico apron to her bosom. I remember her gigantic fern kept on a stand near the southern windows lined with velvety African violets in shades of pink and purple.”

— Jane Starner

Jean Lowrey and her Custard Spoon

I met Jean Lowrey a few years ago when she stopped by the Community Foundation to discuss Dalton Education Foundation business. I attended the meeting only as an observer, and what I observed that day was storytelling at its finest.  Everything Ms. Lowrey says is entertaining. She chooses interesting words and idioms for her conversations. Her timing is impeccable. I wasn't observing a business meeting that day—I was watching a performance.

Jean Lowrey's story, "The Custard Spoon," is in Project Keepsake.  Enjoy!

Months later, I was thrilled when she shared a keepsake story with me.  Her story is about an old custard spoon that once belonged to her grandmother, but like the other stories in the collection, it's really not about the keepsake.  The keepsake merely opens the doorway for a story that needs to be told.  

Jean's story brings to mind my own grandmothers.  Each of my grandmothers loved to cook for large crowds—as if they were feeding small armies.  So, when Jean described her grandmother's cooking in her keepsake story, I was hooked. Here's an excerpt:

“I saw a wrinkled, aged-spotted hand slowly and gently guiding the spoon, around and around and around the pot as a cream-colored recipe continued to thicken and coat the sides of the pot and the spoon. Around and around, again and again. Thickening and coating. Mesmerizing motions. The hand and the spoon working as one.

Around and around, she continued to stir. With her free hand, she swatted at a fly which had located the lone hole in the kitchen window screen.”

— Jean Lowrey