Drawing on a winter memory, and drawing for a free book

The wind whipped icy fingers up my coat sleeve today, tapped me on my shoulder, and reminded me that this cold snap does not even compare to the frigid arctic air (minus fifty degrees) that snatched my breath, cloistered my words in exhaled clouds that crashed to the ground, and numbed my toes until they burned... when I called Alaska home.  

Winter of 1969, belly ripe with first baby, stars so close in an ebony canopy that I could almost reach on tiptoe and pluck a sky diamond.

At midnight, the ancient fire truck wailed to a stop at the top of the snow-covered, gravel road in front of the white frame house. It was the only house on School Road amongst a string of crayon-colored dilapidated trailers with attached wannigans: room additions the length of the trailers, which created extended living space and the need for more diesel heating fuel, a commodity on soldier's pay.

Smoke billowed skyward from the Hinesly's home. Neighbors nosed outside in night clothes. Word travelled fast. "Only condensation in the attic. Not a fire."

But look up! We pulled our wraps tight and pointed bare fingers at the celestial smear of jeweled colors amongst the diamonds in the sky. My first glimpse of the Aurora Borealis. Northern Lights, what a sight!

How cold is it where you are? Do you like/dislike winter? 

If you wish to enter a drawing for a free book, and you live within the United States, here's what you do. Please tell someone about my blog, http://lindaoconnell.blogspot.com.

Ask them to sign on to "follow" my blog. They don't ever have to return, but it would be great if they did.

That person should tell me who "sent" them, and I will put both your name and theirs into the hat for a book drawing on NEXT Sunday, January 18th. If I get more than ten followers, I will do a second drawing, so that would be four books to be signed, and one sent possibly to YOU. Thank you for your participation and help. 

Titles to choose from (my stories included in each of these):

Not Your Mother's Book...On Family (co created by me)
Not Your mother's Book...On Travel
Not Your Mother's Book... On Home Improvement

Chicken Soup for the Soul, Home Sweet Home
Chicken Soup for the Soul, Living with Alzheimer's and Other Dementias
Chicken Soup for the Soul, Just Us Girls
Chicken Soup for the Soul The Dating Game
Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Power of Positive
Chicken Soup for the Soul, Reader's Choice
Chicken Soup for the Gardener's Soul (my first CS published story)  

Weather or not!

Thanks to all who played my first line game. That was fun.

I'd rather be sweating than freezing.
I'd rather have snow than sleet.
I'd rather be kicking my shoes off than
kicking snow off the boots on my feet.

The news stations are bombarding us with dire predictions of varying amounts of snow 3-24 inches and ice 1/4 - 1 inch. The governor has declared a state of emergency. Schools and businesses are shuttered, and the National Guard has been called in.

The media blitz began yesterday and has been non-stop, "Ice can snap branches, take down trees, electric lines, and this amount of snow can collapse roofs. We are expecting major power outages. Do not call 911 unless it is a true emergency. Be prepared to hunker down in your car if you get stranded, as emergency vehicles may not be able to respond in blizzard conditions."

I thought about preparedness. I used every appliance in the house while we still have electricity. Laundry is finished, dishes are clean. TV is still blaring catastrophic conditions which have not materialized YET in our area. We do have a thin coating of sleet on the driveway. I toasted half of a cinnamon raisin bagel, opened the fridge and found the strawberry cream cheese, I perked a pot of coffee and dunked a handful of mini Oreos, and flipped on the computer. So, this is how it's going to be until all that moisture blends and the winds start blowing and the white apocalypse arrives. Stay warm everybody.

Please let me know what the weather is like where you are. I welcome those sunny, high temp reports. I can live vicariously through y'all down south, far south, not just those of you who live in Arnold.

When I was 20 years old living in rural Alaska, a neighbor (brilliant engineer)
decided to dig a hole under his trailer to insert a heating stove to warm the floor. The temperature plummeted to minus fifty and before he could dig the circumference big enough to fit a stove through, every line in the trailer court froze: diesel heating fuel, propane cooking fuel, water lines. No plumbing and pregnant. The nearest bathroom a quarter mile away at a honky-tonk road house. I hand-washed and wrung my ex's heavy green woolen shirts and pants which froze stiff. We piled under blankets with two dogs for two days until another neighbor swiped a big commercial heating blast furnace from the army, and invited us to stay with him and his pregnant wife. That heater shot out flames like a fire breathing dragon. Those were the days, no money, no sense, no kidding.
That was then; this is now. I am prepared. How about you?

Queen of the Last Frontier, published by High Hill Press

Queen of the Last Frontier, the biography of Emily Viaene Keaster, as told to Linda O'Connell, published by High Hill Press, is now available on Amazon.com. $15.95
http://www.amazon.com/Quen-Last-Frontier-Biography-Keaster/dp/1606530267/ref+sr_1_1?s+books&ie+UTF8&qid+1284313316&s+1-1





Emily and I met in Delta Junction, Alaska in 1969 when my former husband was stationed at Ft. Greely Army Arctic Test Center. Her husband, Walt, was a civillian who worked on post with my ex. The Keasters were pioneer homesteaders who battled the hostile environment, wild animals and the land boss.

This book chronicles the life of Emily from her birth in the back seat of a Studebaker to the present. Queen of the Last Frontier evokes a range of emotions. Readers will discover how Emily reared children and raised cattle and hell in the Land of the Midnight Sun. Emily Viaene Keaster has made numerous contributions to the town of Delta Junction. She continues to reign supreme over her homestead.


Publisher, Lou Ella Turner at High Hill Press, Cottleville, MO did a wonderful job on this book. I would highly recommend this small press publisher. My experience was pleasant and positive.
http://HighHillPress.com/

Double the recipe, double the luck!

I received an acceptance from Mid River's Review on two of my poems. I'm jumping for joy and if I had some yeast dough rising, I'd be kneading it about now. But I had a bad experience baking bread once. My husband doesn't understand why I don't want a bread machine. Let me tell you...

In the fall of 1969 I was a young military wife living in a remote Alaska town trying to survive on a shoe string budget. A loaf of bread at that time cost $1.59, back when in the lower 48 you could buy five loaves for a buck. One day towards the end of the month when we were as broke as a our ramschakle trailer, my next door neighbor, Sheila and I pooled our pennies and walked to the general store to purchase a double packet of dry yeast. She wanted to show me how to bake homemade bread. We salivated at the thought of warm bread oozing with butter. We combined the contents of our nearly empty flour canisters and decided to double the yeast so we'd have a double loaf, one for her and one for me.

We took turns kneading the mass of moist dough. We played a game of Yahtzee and watched the dough rise to perfection, then we pounded it a second time. We covered it with a damp towel to rise again, and then we took the shortcut and trekked single file through the woods where the buffalo and moose roamed. We visited other army wives living nearby. Three hours later we remembered the bread dough. We hurried home, confident that we had enough time to bake the bread and surprise our husbands. The surprise was on us!

We darted into the tiny trailer kitchen and gasped in disbelief. The MASSIVE DOUGH had swollen to incredible proportion, crept out of the bowl onto the table and was slinking towards the edge. Speechless, we looked at one another and then back at the sticky blob covered with two yellow ducky diaper pins, the empty yeast packet, three pennies, one nickel, copper bobby pins from my friend's red hair and the contents of her husband's ashtray. When we saw three of our red Yahtzee dice embedded in the blob we laughed uncontrollably.

We buried the mass of massive dough in the bottom of the trash barrel. Back then the landlord burned the trash on the weekend. Sheila and I worried that it would rise to great heights when the match was tossed. We didn't wait around to see.

Homemade bread? No thank you, unless YOU are baking.

Forever Letters, Forever Stamps

About Letter Writing
Published 3/09 Suburban Journals

Letters have been a life-line for my best friend and me for forty years. They bouyed our spirits and kept us emotionally afloat as we endured the crashing waves of life. Now, our letters are an anchor for my friend's receding mind.

Our friendship began when we were next door neighbors and wives of soldiers stationed in a remote Alaska town. We connected immediately. When it was time to return to our respective hometowns, we vowed to stay connected.

My heart skipped a beat each time the letter carrier deliverd a red and blue edged airmail envelope - it felt like my cherished friend in Boston was sitting in my kitchen. We shared the joys and frustrations of motherhood; we reared our children with swapped ideas and complaints, and we did it all through letter writing. Each ten page missive was like unburdening ourselves at the gossip fence. Although we were separated by fifteen hundred miles, we knew we had one another to lean on when we needed a boost or a kick in the pants.

As divorce loomed on my horizon, she was there to listen, respond and support me. When medical issues loomed on her horizon, she shocked me with an unexpected phone call. "Tumor. Brain. Malignant." I'm sure she said a host of other words, but those were all I heard. "So very-very sorry." I'm sure I said much more, but what I remember is we didn't cry. Verbal words of comfort failed me; all the while my mind was spinning a letter. When we hung up, I took pen in hand, poured out my love, encouragement and addressed our fears. I did this twice a week for the next three years, when her letters were sporadic or non-existent. Chemotherapy and radiation were her topics; teenaged children and daily living, mine.

Today her cancer is gone and so is her short-term memory. I write her weekly. She tells me her heart skips a beat when she sees a letter from me. Although she can not remember a moment ago, her long-term memory is intact. Every letter is a connection to days of long ago when we walked among the wildflowers clutching our swollen bellies, sharing hopes and dreams, wondering what it would be like to be a mother.
Forever more we will be two newlywed girls walking a dusty path towards yesterday in that remote Alaska town (Delta Junction).

As my friend drifts away, I vow that we will stay connected. As long as there are Forever stamps, I will forever write my friend a weekly letter.