Groundwaters

What’s Been Happenin’?

I have begun my Groundwaters contributor profiles but because of the logistics, I will try to post one every month… weekly would be too much of a stretch for me, I’m afraid.

We are busily preparing the Fall issue of GW for its October release date. I’m struck by the fact that it doesn’t have as many submitters as usual, but the quality is excellent, I think. Summer is a hard time for people to sit down and get much work done at their computers. It’s a time to get outside during what little free time most of us have and enjoy Oregon’s wonderful sunshine and summer breezes. It’s a busy time for other things, too.

The month of August was especially busy for our Groundwaters staff. We started it off with our monthly meeting on August 8. The next day, I met 23 descendants of the Jost and Jerusha Petrie family at King Estates Winery in Lorane to show them around the area where their great great grandparents had settled in the late 1800s. It was a fun day for not only them, but for me and their “tour guide,” Walt Hayes, as well. You may have read my story about the Petries in the September 4, 2008 edition of the West Lane News, but if you missed it, I am including it in the October issue of Groundwaters. It’s an interesting one.

Then, on Sunday, August 10, I opened the doors to the Dew Drop Inn, future home of Groundwaters, for another garage sale. My granddaughter, Hayley, “manned” the sale while I attended the Lorane Old Timers’ Picnic held at the Grange. That afternoon, Lorane celebrated its annual Ice Cream Social at the Fire Hall. It was such a busy day at the two events that Hayley didn’t have any traffic at the garage sale at all, but she was placated by having a great lunch at the picnic with dessert following at the ice cream social. We finally closed up early and went home around 4:00 p.m.

On Wednesday and Friday, August 13 and 15, I was invited to sit at the Oregon Author’s Table at the Lane County Fair. It was a very enjoyable experience for me. On Wednesday, I sat between Register-Guard columnists Bob Welch and Dorcas Smucker – both writers that I respect and admire. On Friday, I got to spend the day next to Jo-Brew, author and columnist for the Creswell Chronicle and Jane Lindaman, author of wonderful children’s books. I handed out a lot of Groundwaters magazines to fair-goers and authors alike and even sold a few of my books, so those two days were very enjoyable and successful for me, as well.

Jo-Brew and Herbie Medlin posed together for this picture at the 2008 Lane County Fair’s Oregon Authors Table.

Jen Chambers was busy in her own right. She attended the Willamette Writers Conference in Portland on August 15 and not only promoted Groundwaters there, but also picked up a lot of interest from literary agents for her first novel dealing with traumatic brain injuries. Congratulations, Jen! I’m attaching her report on the conference below.

Then, Jen, Pat Broome and I attended the Fern Ridge Library’s FRIENDfest on Saturday, August 23. Pat is the newly-elected chairman of the Library Board and was busy in that capacity at their table. Jen and I spent the 1:00 to 2:00 p.m. time slot reading from our respective books. We had an audience the whole time and I know that it was as much fun for the two of us as it was for those we were reading to.

I’m looking forward to Fall. The few days of rain we’ve had lately have been refreshing and I can feel the season beginning its gradual change. I just hope it doesn’t change too swiftly.

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Willamette Writers Conference
By Jennifer Chambers

I just returned from the annual Willamette Writers Conference in Portland, Oregon, a weekend devoted to the craft and fellowship with other writers. I had a wonderful time. I generally do when I indulge in the habit of further education. Plus, I was hoping to promote Groundwaters while I was there.

Such conferences are made up of mini-seminars from which to choose, in any given time slot. Since you have limited time, and the rooms generally have limited space, it’s prudent to plan well and know what you want to see going in. This was especially true for me, as I would only be able to attend one day.

I was most looking forward to a session by writer and editor Elizabeth Lyon, with whom I have had an e-mail dialogue about the magazine, and who I’ve just missed meeting on several occasions. I came into the session fueled up on endless cups of very good coffee (one of the perks at seminars in the NW) and intended to write down furiously all the bits of wisdom the veteran could brew up. I was also amped and coming off the adrenaline from a pitch session with an agent, to be honest, but it was one of those sessions that happened in my life at just the right time, the perfect doppio to my double-shot.

Ms. Lyon’s session was called, “Writing and Revising Your Novel’s Query, Synopsis, and Two Pages.” Her talk was informative, well organized and concise, but left room for questions and answers both during and afterwards. The initial focus was on the dreaded Query. Use the five paragraph format, Lyon explained: pitch, synopsis of no more than two paragraphs, short biography, and communication information. Lyon went on to illustrate with actual queries taken anonymously from her estimated 200 queries floating around her office. The anonymity was nice; I’m sure my query letters from the past could have been on her “bad examples” list. The sum of her seminar was that you should spend time crafting the query, not just the manuscript. The information was presented concisely, was well organized, and Lyon gave us a worksheet for further interest. It was a fantastic way for me to salivate over what more I could find in her book.

Another helpful session was given by Marilyn Allen; “How to Query and Pitch to Get Agents’ and Editors’ Attention.” Can you sense a theme in my class choices? Allen, too, used a handout to recap the information contained in the seminar. Her alliterative advice was fun: The Hook, The Book and the Cook. The “Hook,” is the pitch, the concisely-put teaser to make an agent want to know more. The “Cook,” is the writers’ credentials. For instance, if you want to write a cookbook, it helps if you’re Emeril—or at least that you’re a chef, a licensed nutritionist, etc. Cook credentials are your B.A., your professional experience, or the thing that makes you informed on your subject. The “Book.” of course, is your special material, condensed.

I was able to spread the word about Groundwaters, too. In fact, the person who sat next to me at lunch is going to submit her story of an alternative publishing experience. I was able to glean so much workable advice from the day. Each session was useful, and the speakers nationally recognized as masters of their craft. I recommend that anyone who wants to be a serious writer attend conferences regularly. Ms. Lyon was kind enough to sign my copy of her new book, and I’m using it right now to revise the manuscript the agents were interested in at the conference. Commitment to the craft. That’s what I want for my writing. That, and another cup of coffee, to stay up to revise the darn thing.

Who are they? … the inside “scoop” on some of your favorite local writers

Herbert “Herbie” Medlin

Herbie Medlin has agreed to be first in a series of profiles on some of the writers who have shared their special talents with the readers of Groundwaters. I hope to include one profile a month, if possible — no promises, though!

Herbie first submitted his poem, “Once Upon a Dream” to Groundwaters for the Fall 2007 issue. Actually, he submitted a number of poems at once and has allowed us to print them “as needed.” We’ve since published one or more of his poems in each issue, my favorite being “Winter Rose” (Winter 2008) and I have become his biggest fan. There is a gentleness to his writing that reveals a quiet respect for life and the people who live it.

Herbie grew up in the Bethel-Danebo area of Eugene and graduated from Willamette High School in 1972. He spent his childhood on a farm – milking cows, gathering eggs, feeding livestock – and he earned money for school clothes in the bean and berry fields and walnut orchards. He joined the local fire department as a volunteer when he was 16 and remained a member for 16 more years. After graduation, Herbie joined the U.S. Army as a firefighter/crash rescue specialist and was stationed at Fort Stewart, south of Savannah, Georgia. He was assigned to the 238th aviation attack helicopter unit.

“Most of our time was spent 20 miles from the main post at a heli-pad in the swamp – not much to see there but snakes and opossums.” He earned his EMT certificate while there. Nineteen months later, he was transferred to Puukuloa Training Area on Hawaii.

Herbie has worked a lot of jobs since then, trying to find something that he really enjoyed doing, but allergies and a permanent wrist injury have limited his options. His favorites over the years were horse logging and auto body repair, but he had to give up both eventually. He is now driving a dump truck for Delta Sand and Gravel.

When he is not working or taking care of his elderly father, Herbie enjoys spending time in the Coast Range, picking mushrooms, camping, hunting and relaxing.

“There are some days I just drive from Horton all the way to the coast on the mountain roads. The serenity and beauty always refresh me.”

The stress caused by his inability to do the work he loves and an unsuccessful marriage have turned him inward and his “scribblings” over the years have been therapeutic, providing him a much-needed outlet for the stress and resulting depression that began to build.

“A friend gave me a copy of Groundwaters and said I should submit something. After much thought, I did and have been surprised and humbled at your response. Groundwaters is the only place I have submitted anything to so far. You have spoiled me with your kindness.”

Be assured, Herbie, we’ll continue to do so as long as you want to be a part of the Groundwaters family.

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Winter Rose

There is nothing more vibrant than a winter rose.
Its shear existence is a thing of beauty defying time
with its strength and grace.
More so even in the morning light with frost as a
veil trying to hide what lies beneath.

This is not so only in the garden, but in life as well.
The most vibrant, colorful women I know are no longer
of the spring but of early fall and on into late winter,
yet showing no signs of wilting or fading –
defying time with such grace that one forgets
winter even exists.

~Herbie

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In Honor

Somewhere today
A mother cries
Trying to show pride
Through her pain

With feet like clay
And red-rimmed eyes
She takes the long ride
To where her child will be lain

For her Soldier she prays
Who paid the ultimate price
In war they died
From the rockets rain

Taps will play
The salute will fire
As the Soldier’s final ride
Ends in a stone-filled plain

~ Herbie

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The Hawk

As I sit in my truck and watch the miles roll by, the boredom and loneliness are a constant com- panion. Once again I find I am not my own best company. Although the heavy fog and ice- covered trees make for a wonderful sight.

Hawks with their own beauty soaring in their false free- dom looking for the next life-giving meal reminds me of the homeless, with their signs asking for help or the ones in a daze with the terrible weight of life showing in their bent shoulders – not seeing or caring about the surrounding beauty, for the cold damp is one of the enemies itself. They are the faceless and nameless legions, that those such as myself are maybe one step away from joining.

Their plight splits my emotions into shards of pity, hope, shame, happiness and most of all fear for the future of these legions and selfishly for me, as I know I am not strong enough to survive if my fate is to join them.

So for now the lonely boredom of my own company is still a dazzling diamond compared to the ones with the signs and the bent shoulders of hopelessness, lost in the beauty of trees of ice crystals and soft white fog.

As for the Hawk it just disappears into the mist adding punctuation to the loneliness and fear within me.

~ Herbie

Who are we? … the Groundwaters Staff

Jennifer Byers Chambers

Jen Chambers was one of Judy’s first volunteers with Groundwaters and is the person on our team who provides the youth and fresh ideas that keep us all on track. Jen’s eagerness to carry out the projects that she takes on usually guarantees success. She’s not afraid of new directions and seeks out knowledge on how best to proceed whether it is through writing conferences, mentors or research. She’s the fiction writer on our team. Her wonderful imagination and her ability to make characters and settings come to life for her readers will ensure that she will get noticed some day soon by the publishing world.

Besides being an excellent writer, Jen is the mother of two (Riley and Quinn) and the wife of Ryan Chambers, a teacher and coach at Mapleton High School.

Jen has written for numerous publications including the Register-Guard and The West Lane News. She is in the process of marketing her book, Learning Life, which is the story about two women’s struggles with traumatic brain injury and how daily chores affect their lives. “TBI” is a much too familiar subject for Jen, who has lived her story following a near-fatal car accident during her high school years at Crow High School.

She is a member of Willamette Writers Group and the Brain Injury Association of America. You can find examples of her work and links to magazines and brain-injury-related sites on her website at http://www.geocities.com/jenniferbyerschambers.

I am including for your enjoyment a sample of Jen’s writing entitled “The Price of Recovery” that was published in Volume 4 Issue 1, the October 2007 winter issue of Groundwaters.

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The Price of Recovery

Traumatic Brain Injury Support Group
6:00 Wednesday
All Welcome

The other people in the support group were easy to loathe on sight. The idea of meeting with a bunch of other freaks was not something that would make her feel better at his point. Tom, the therapist, would say that she was cutting herself off before she started, but he was full of shit anyway. He didn’t know what it was like.

“Hello?” A woman in a gray suit jacket and pencil skirt raised her hand, waved it around for attention. “Excuse me? Everybody? It’s time to get started.”

The people milling about the large meeting room slowly filed in to their seats. No one sat in the front; all the rows were wide in order to accommodate the various pieces of equipment that assisted the TBI survivors. SarahBeth didn’t bother to hide the disgust she felt at being in the same room with these people. Lip curled, she hobbled with her walker, much slower than she would have liked, never looking up from the cracked tile until she got to her own chair. For a relatively easy retreat, she selected one on the interior aisle near the back and maneuvered herself into the orange plastic bucket seat.

“All right,” the lady in charge was sweating profusely through the faint shadow of a moustache on her upper lip. “It’s time to get to know each other. Now, you don’t have to say your name if you don’t want to. If you aren’t comfortable, say ‘pass,’ okay?” In a businesslike manner, she pushed up the sleeves of her jacket until they were three-quarters length and checked the dial of a thin gold watch. “Just want to get started on time,” she looked at the group, eyes wide and reflected in chunky glasses ten years out of date. “Okay. I’m Melody Gates, and I’m a support group facilitator. My son died from a traumatic brain injury six years ago this fall.”

“Hi, Melody,” some of the more experienced support-groupers chorused. Oh, please, SarahBeth thought, like I need AA. I don’t even want to see these people, let alone identify with them. The chair was uncomfortable, and she could feel the stares of the people around the room settle on her like pins in a butterfly’s wings.

“Oh.” It took a minute to find the words, and her face burned with embarrassment. Would it always take this long? “S- SarahBeth,” she forced out at last, and ducked her head to hide the anger. God, she should have just said “Pass,” what an idiot. Since her head was down she didn’t have to look anyone in the eye, especially that kid in the special wheelchair, the one with a breathing tube. She was definitely not as bad as him. His mom held up a straw for him to drink from. Oh crap, they were still waiting. It felt like time spun thick in the air while she waited it out, but thank goodness Melody stepped in.

“Thank you, SarahBeth,” she said with a big smile, “I’m sure I read about you. Everyone, SarahBeth here’s the one who was trapped in a car for seven days. Remember? Up on the mountain there? Well, here you are. Nice to see you, SarahBeth.” It was hard to tell if Melody was sincere; her voice had a ring of admiration in it but her eyes were soft with pity.

There was no way she was going to talk to any of these people. The only stuff she could remember before she was trapped in the car was not good, so why talk about that? What was she supposed to say, in a group like this? Hi, I’m SarahBeth; my brain’s totally screwed up, nice to meet you? That is, if she could find a way to make the right words come out of her mouth. A few bits of black fingernail polish remained on her fingernails, and she concentrated on chipping them off to tune the group out.

The person to her left was finished speaking at long last. “You are supposed to have sympathy for people less fortunate than you,” a phrase her foster mother said like a mantra, floated through her mind. Well, foster mom wasn’t stuck here in the loony bin with a bunch of crazies.

“I’m Dr. Catalano. I’m a Brain Trauma Physician here at the hospital. I like to check out the support group when I can.” He waved his right hand to the crowd, gave a reassuring smile. “I brought a guest. This is Maggie McLeod. She was a patient of mine many years ago.”

The woman sitting next to him sat on the outside of the aisle, her back to the wall, watching the people in the room with a guarded look on her face. Her hair, halfway pulled up, was more brown than red. Fish-belly white skin showed as her sleeve rode up when she, too, raised her hand to wave.

“I’m Maggie.” A deep, in through the nose, out through the mouth breath escaped before she went on. “I used to live here too.”

It was said with some surprise, whether as to her being here, or as to her being lucky enough to get out, SarahBeth couldn’t tell. It was hideous having someone from the outside see her. Who did she think she was, coming in here all… normal? Misery overtook SarahBeth. Drawing her walker to her, she leaned her upper body on its support and felt the peculiar aloneness one can only experience when surrounded by people who ostensibly feel what you feel.

Who are we? … the Groundwaters Staff

Jim Burnett (aka Jimminy Cricket – yes, he knows that’s not the correct spelling for the other Jiminy!

Jim Burnett

I’ve known Jim all of my life – literally. He’s my brother. When he learned that I was becoming involved in a literary magazine, his interest was immediately piqued. Jim has always been the philosopher in the family. His thoughts and meditations run deep. He has always loved to delve into the whys and the why nots of life and has studied many religions and beliefs. In fact, he has long had his own ministry based on the faith of the Unity (not Unitarian) faith. He has performed marriages and led worships for many years.

Jim is the father of eight as well as grandfather and great-grandfather of many. He and his wife Jonni live in a 5th wheel RV which they have taken to many destinations around the U.S. the past few years since they both retired. Unfortunately, with gas prices being what they are currently, their wings have been somewhat clipped this year and they have stayed pretty close to their original home of Portland, Oregon. In addition, Jim’s oldest son, J.R., has been undergoing very traumatic treatment for throat cancer this year and it’s really the main reason he and Jonni have wanted to stay close by.

Jim loves the written word, as well as the spoken one. He reads voraciously and has long been a reviewer for a statewide writer’s association.

Life isn’t all mental gymnastics for him, though. He is a natural “Santa Claus” and he frequently allows his snow white beard and hair to grow out a bit as the holidays approach. He’s the real thing, not only in appearance, but his love for children and for the holiday season adds that unique sparkle to his eyes that cannot be replicated by those without “the gift.”

The Groundwaters staff is so privileged to have Jim as a member and contributor – even if it is a long-distance membership/relationship.

Jim hasn’t been able to provide an autobiographical sketch for the blog, so instead, I am including here a special story he wrote for the Winter 2008 “choice” issue. It will give you an idea of his writing style and a flavor of who “Jimminy Cricket” really is…

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Apricot Tree
By Jim Burnett

Before I lay this mortal by, I want to become an apricot tree. Many years ago, I bought a house with a large yard that included three trees. One was a nectarine tree, bearing wonderful fruit year after year; one was a white Dogwood tree which celebrated the coming of each spring with an abundance of blossoms. The other tree… well, it was my mystery tree. According to leaf and bark, it was obviously some kind of fruit, but no one knew what kind. It had been barren – blossom-less – for many years. Each year, I tended and pruned each tree, but the mystery tree continued to withhold its fruit. Then, one fall as I was pruning, I decided that I would replace the mystery tree the coming spring. To simplify its removal, I pruned its branches, then cut back its limbs so that none smaller than two inches in diameter remained. All winter, that stark skeleton-of-a-tree stood deathlike – its doom sealed by my decision and my cruel saw.

That spring, however, I wore my procrastinator’s mask, and as the weather warmed, the mystery tree began to put forth fresh green sprigs which soon became leaf-filled branches. Because of its seemingly renewed burst of energy, I granted it a stay of execution. Nobody had seen this tree bloom in several decades, but this year, it bloomed! And as the weeks passed, blooms became fruit. My tree was no longer a mystery. There, alongside the nectarine tree, was an apricot tree bearing round, robust fruit – not many, but nevertheless, real apricots. Oh! and what apricots they were! Several decades before, I had plucked and devoured sweet, ripe golf ball-sized apricots from my Grandmother Zander’s tree in Southern California. The apricots in my backyard were twice the size of those, and as they ripened, they radiated an inviting, irresistible golden glow. The tree produced only a couple of dozen of its golden fruit and I think I ate every one, directly from tree to mouth. To say that tree’s fruit was good, is a gross understatement; I had never eaten – before or since – such luscious fruit!

Then, almost as quickly as its last precious fruit was plucked, the tree died. Before any leaf had fallen from the other trees, it had given up its fruit, its leaves and its life-energy. I thought at the time, “What a way to go!”

A couple of weeks later, as the last bits of the tree were reduced to glowing embers and wispy smoke curling up into the sky, I said to myself, “That’s the way I want to go – just like the apricot tree! I want my last efforts on Planet Earth to be spent bearing fruit of such quality that I will be fondly remembered by those who knew me.