Popular Posts

Thursday, May 17, 2012

New Job, New Bio

I have taken a new job in my retirement years; it is a full-time, part-time job writing for two small weekly newspapers. This is only my second week, yet it feels like a full time, full time job. Here is my bio for the staff introduction article.


Brenda Evers, a retired English and Journalism teacher, has been a writer (off and on) for most of her life. After college and between teaching jobs she worked for a small weekly, the Cherokee County Chronicle, in her hometown of Tahlequah, Oklahoma.  She married and moved so she would submit freelance stories to the daily newspaper where she lived in Oklahoma: the Muskogee Phoenix and the Seminole Producer.
While she was a high school teacher, her husband Byron was the Journalism professor at Seminole State College, and that is what brought the family to Colorado. He was the team photographer for the Seminole Trojans Junior College baseball team when they played in National Junior College World Series tournament at Grand Junction in the early ‘80s tournament. Byron and Brenda brought the family out and fell in love with the Grand Valley.
Byron has been at Mesa State College (now Colorado Mesa University) for 23 years. Brenda taught in District 51 for 21 years before retiring in 2010: twelve years at Palisade High School and nine years at Fruita Monument High.
After training so many students in language arts skills, such as reading, writing, speaking, yearbook, newspaper and life skills, Brenda is “practicing what she preached,” making time to work on her own writing skills.
“I love to talk to people and write the stories in their lives. I’ve been trying to write a book for years; it’s quicker and easier to go, listen, and laugh with some one else and write a feature story instead,” she admits. “But this is a part-time job writing for the Fruita Times and the Palisade Tribune, right? Maybe I’ll get back to my book soon.”

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Be Careful What You Wish For

I've always wanted to be a writer. Wanted is the operative word. I did very little toward actually writing.

Yet I've had a very interesting life, so I have experiences to tell. But I haven't. Life got in the way.

Years ago I taught journalism, newspaper and yearbook in addition to English grammar, literature, etc. I even freelance and wrote for a weekly newspaper back in my hometown.

Now over 60, I am retired from teaching high school Language Arts, and my desire to write became stronger. I read, and I write. . . then I stop, put it in a notebook, drawer, computer file and leave it. I joined a writing group five or ten years ago. Still I did not produce any mass of "writings."

Two years ago I felt differently. I'm not teaching part-time after retirement. My children are all grown and gone to other states. Why not write? Daily? With a goal? With a plan? About time, I told myself.

So I took a college creative course. It made me write, daily, with a goal, with a plan. I produced a 7000 word first chapter about my years teaching at an Indian Boarding school. The instructor said it was interesting topic that I should develop. I kept writing.

It became a chore, harder than a short story. I stopped, put it in a notebook, then a drawer and even have a copy on the computer.

Until the fall--no classes, no job, no kids at home, but we had waves of family come out to visit us. Three to four weeks in a row of vacationers keep me busy, cleaning, cooking, siteseeing, but no writing. The call came at noon one day, "Papa Lon is dying. If you want to see him and talk once more, come now."

Memories washed over me with the spuratic floods of tears. I had to dig through boxes of pictures of my childhood, my teen marriage, my parents, and my in-laws. That's when I determined to get back into writing and this time stick with it. Finish a chapter, a story, a memory. Just do it!

I can't say I have published a book, but I have written more constantly in this last year than all the years before. At least I'm still writing.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Palisade Pedicab hoping to expand across Valley

For two years one man has been taking his business to the streets of Palisade. Now Shawn Robinson is expanding into the streets of Grand Junction.
Peach and wine festival visitors often stop and stare at the tall, sandy-haired driver peddling by in a lime green, three-wheeled bicycle with a two people seated behind him on a bench seat.
 “Palisade Pedicab” printed on the side of the bicycle cab proclaims Robinson’s pedal-powered taxi service designed to give passengers a safe, relaxing and eco-friendly ride anywhere they want to go.
Nine months out of the year, locals are familiar with the sight as Robinson is busy working downtown festivals, parades, Farmers’ Market Sundays, and touring through the wineries through the spring, summer and fall.
He only has one pedicab, but he and his wife Linda plan to grow outside the Palisade events. Shawn Robinson feels his cab can be enjoyed at many Grand Junction events.
“Last year I took my ped to JuCo for three nights. The first night was successful. The next two nights were not for various reasons, but I intend to be there again this month,” he said.
            When the Grand Junction Rockies start their season in June, Hamilton will be there with his pedicab services, taking riders leisurely and safely to and from their homes, cars or just peddling around downtown GJ.
            So, how and why did this couple start a second business?  
Robinson’s first job is in construction, but in 2010 when work slowed down, he and his wife needed to boost their income.
“I read about pedicabs in a cycling magazine. We had seen vehicles like this in Denver taking people to and from Bronco, Rockie games and other events, as well as Peds used all along 16th Street Mall area,” he said.
 “Living here in Palisade surrounded by the orchards and wineries, we just felt it was another way for visitors to enjoy the beauty at a gentle pace. So we talked to Wine Country Inn about offering our services to their customers, just touring the wineries. Then I began driving passengers to and from the Palisade Peach Festival and the Farmers’ Market each Sunday during the summer.
“I have driven Santa through the Parade of Lights and then taken him back home,” he smiled as he talked about the fun aspects of his job.
The Palisade Pedicab man peddled its first wedding last year, delivering the bride in a beautiful outdoor wedding.
 “Who knows, maybe if this business keeps growing, we may have to buy another ped for the Valley,” Shawn considers.
He still feels, “It is a unique way to make a living, that’s for sure.”
Palisade Pedicab rates, pictures and more information is on Facebook, his webpage www.palisadepedicab.com, or contact him whenever he is peddling around Palisade. Shawn Hamilton loves to talk about his taxi business.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Monday, April 16, 2012

Remembering the Stories


The 100th Anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic has passed.
I have been so caught up in the stories: the one I wrote for the Beacon, the new TV movie, TV documentaries, the old movies from 1921 to 1998, the numerous books, to the on-line websites and video tributes.
Fifteen hundred souls went down with the ship. Seven hundred plus survived. 
Each had a story to tell.  
Fewer than 100 had their stories told, personally or by someone else, but the number of untold stories amazes and saddens me.
All are gone now. Their stories are dying with the passing of family members who knew and didn’t tell. We fabricate what they might have thought or done or experienced, but now we will never really know the truth.
I feel honored to have been written one person’s story, Charles Eugene Williams. There is no personal link to me or my family, but I feel a kindredship with him after learning about his survival from the sinking ship.
Yet, the basic facts of his personal life and career were few. Williams remains a Titanic victim with a mystery about how he continued on after this major event in 1912.
Charles Eugene Williams, World Champion Squash Racquets player from Harrow, England and Chicago, Illinois, traveled on, just as we all do even after we lose so much.
There are memorials around the world, but none lists the names of the passengers, who died or who survived. Even if they built one today, who would know all the stories of the 3rd class, crew, or upper class persons.
In Washington, D.C. the Vietnam Memorial Wall displays 60,000 names of those killed or missing. Millions more soldiers fought or participated in that conflict. Each one has a story. Like the Titanic tragedy, major battles and major names will generate stories in the movies and documentaries, but who will tell the stories of the loved ones' personal lives?
Don't wait for the 100th anniversary of any tragedy, remember each person and his/her life story and struggles through it. Write now.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Keeping the Receipts


          When old teacher friends call, we greet each other jokingly, “Hey, do you still have your receipts?”
            “Of course I do. Do you?”
            “You know it. I’m goin’ to keep them ‘til I die.”
            It’s a private joke, but Rhonda, Jeri and I still have the receipts from an unforgettable trip in 1986. Even 25 years later, we still expect the Tribal Office will call, asking for that debt to be repaid. We are ready. We keep our receipts.
            That summer the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma sent us, three Tribal boarding school teachers, to San Francisco to do training with the National Reading Teacher of the Year. Not to a conference with hundreds of other teachers, we went to his high school classes, sat in front row desks and learned the techniques personally.
 Our principal handed us plane tickets, a detailed agenda, and one American Express card to pay for everything: meals, rooms, and transportation.
            “Of course, you must turn in all receipts with the card when you return,” he advised us. “You are not allowed to use it for personal purchases.”
            Checking into our rooms in Healdsburg, California, we learned “American Express” is not welcome 82 miles north of San Francisco. Between us we had $1500 cash for souvenirs; now it paid all expenses: motel, meals, and transportation.
Back in San Francisco waiting for our plane home, I spoke up, “Okay, I can’t go home without souvenirs for my kids. So,” dramatically I pulled out the blue-silver card, and said, “If we keep our receipts and don’t spend over the allotted amount the Tribe owes us for our cash, we won’t have to pay them any thing.” I smiled at my reasoning. They agreed.
            We dashed from vendor to vendor, buying sweatshirts, tee shirts, and postcards, keeping the receipts.
            Of course, all heck broke loose weeks later. We had to report to the Tribal Complex. A financial officer yelled at us for illegal use of Tribal money. The only comment the Assistant Chief  made was, “The Chief will talk to you about this.” 
Subdued but stubborn, we knew Chief Wilma Mankiller had the power to fire us or make us pay, with our jobs or the money. We stuck to our reasoning and receipts.
“After we spent our cash for the trip expenses, we had to use the card for souvenirs. But we kept track of everything. We spent $1500—our cash amount. You don’t have to reimburse us any money,” I said.
Expressionless, Chief Mankiller asked, “So we don’t owe you any money? It came out exactly?”
            “Well, it might be off two or three dollars, but we will call it even.” Jeri responded.
            Her loud laugh surprised us. “Okay, let’s call it even. I’ll tell the finance office. But, don’t ever use our card like that again.”           
As we left, I whispered, “The Cherokee Nation will never trust us with their American Express credit card, will they?”
            Rhonda laughed before saying, “They won’t trust us, period.”
            Really, it was not our fault, but we hold on to our receipts, just in case.  (508)

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Waiting for the punch line?


I’m terrible at remembering the punch lines of jokes, or even the whole joke, so it came as no surprise with my oldest son inherited the same trait. But we both love jokes, so we continue trying to tell the funniest jokes that come out not funny at all.
##        
   
Each summer we would drive 20 hours across country to Grandma’s house. In the days before DVD players, cell phones or hand-held games, we listened to the radio, slept, talked, sang or finally told jokes.
            “I have one! I have one,” seven-year-old L.J. called out from the middle row seat. The baby watched from his wooden porta-crib. His 12-year-old sister just rolled her eyes.
            “A man wanted to learn how to jump out of a plane,” he began.
            “You mean with a parachute?” she interrupted.
            “Yeah, Don’t ‘rupt me,” he frowned but continued. “So he went to the sky jumper school. . .”
            “Sky diver, school.” She persisted.
             “. . . after you jump wait 15 minutes before you pull the string.”
            “Fifteen minutes! Don’t you mean seconds? “
            “Leave me alone, Sister. I’m telling the joke.
            “So the man got in the plane. When it was up in the sky, he jumped out. He started saying, ‘plenty of time,’ plenty of time,’ plenty of time,’ plenty of time.’”  L.J. continued over and over. After more than a few minutes his repetition became sing-song maddness, going on and on and on.
 “L.J.! Stop!
“Plenty of time, plenty of time, plenty of time. . .”
“Don’t make me stop this van!” Dad pronounced over the continuing litany. Nothing stopped him, so his dad pulled the van over.
“. . . plenty of time, plenty of. . . SPLAT!” L.J. finished with a slap of his hands.  His grinning face faded to our quiet reaction to his joke.
“Spat, spat, spat,” rang out from the back of the van. Stunned silence became laughter as Baby Justin patted his hands and sang, “Splat, spat. . . ” 
We never forgot L.J.’s punch line. 

Westley's Graduation - One Year later

Westley's Graduation - One Year later
Westley gets a hug from his mom the minute after he receives his diploma from Fruita Monument High School, Class of 2010.

He's BACK! Billy Crystal is 2012 Oscar Awards Host

Remember Bohemian Rhapsody Mountain Dew parody Ad

The Help: the film dividing America

By Philip Sherwell 7:30AM BST 23 Oct 20115 Her book has sold 1.3 million copies in Britain and 10 million in the States, the film adaptation has already earned $160 million as the movie hit of the summer in America, and now Oscar buzz is mounting ahead of its release in the UK this week. These should be heady days for Kathryn Stockett, author of bestselling debut novel The Help, a publishing phenomenon that earned the devotion of book clubs and legions of predominantly female fans on both sides of the Atlantic. The Help is the emotive story of black maids in the segregated world of Sixties Mississippi at the height of the civil rights struggle – their narratives recounted by a sympathetic, young white woman who rejects the virulent inbred racism of her old school friends. There are clear autobiographical parallels with Stockett, 42, herself, a blonde Southern belle raised by a beloved African-American nanny in Jackson, the Mississippi state capital where the story is set. And her success is all the more remarkable, as the manuscript, five years in the writing, was rejected by some 60 literary agents (she stopped counting at 45). The Disney film version is being marketed as an inspiring mixture of chick lit and civil rights, based on a heart-warming sorority between the races. And there is growing speculation about Oscar nods for Viola Davis (who plays the central character, Aibileen Clark), Octavia Spencer (her feisty friend, Minny) and newcomer Emma Stone (as white socialite Skeeter Phelan). But not everyone in the US is feeling so good about the “feel-good” juggernaut that is The Help. Certainly not Ablene Cooper, the black housekeeper for Stockett’s brother, who brought a lawsuit against the writer, claiming she was the unwitting and humiliated model for the similarly named lead figure. Nor a leading black actor, or the commentators – many of them also African-American – who view the book and film as patronising portrayals that sugar-coat one of the most violent eras in modern history. Those visceral responses reflect deep and enduring fault lines about race in a country where the horrors of segregation, a painful living memory for many, were not washed away by the election of Barack Obama as the first African-American president. In Mississippi, the scene of some of the most brutal acts of the freedom struggles five decades ago, those sensitivities are particularly raw. And that violent past reared its ugly head again recently when a black man was viciously beaten up by a gang of young whites and then mowed down and killed by a pick-up truck in what prosecutors claim was a racially driven hate crime. Against that turbulent backdrop, Stockett was perhaps always courting controversy. Most poignant among the objecting voices is that of Mrs Cooper, who sued the writer for $75,000, a humble sum by America’s litigious standards, for using her likeness without permission. She said she was distressed that in the book Aibileen lost her son – just as she had – and that in one exchange the maid said her skin was blacker than a cockroach. The case was thrown out under the statute of limitations, as Mrs Cooper failed to lodge it within a year of being sent the book. Still, she was not alone in her complaints. Wendell Pierce, New Orleans-born star of The Wire and Treme, launched a blistering attack on the film after watching it with his mother, who told him afterwards for the first time that she too had once worked as “the help." In a series of scathing tweets, he called the film “passive segregation lite that was painful to watch”, said his mother thought it was an “insult”, that it was a “passive version of the terror of the South” and a “sentimental primer of a palatable segregation history." Mr Pierce was at pains to praise the cast, particularly Davis and Spencer, but added that Hollywood often seeks films with black actors as long as there is also a “great white saviour." The most damning verdict on its allegedly saccharine version of reality was delivered by Max Gordon, an African-American, New York-based writer, who described his outrage as he watched the film. “The phenomenon of The Help is so depressing, as it undercuts the real heroes of the era by ignoring the real horrors,” he told The Sunday Telegraph. “This is not the South of lynchings and beatings, it’s the comfortable Hollywood take of the civil rights era. “I don’t think you can compare suffering and oppression, but what would people say if there was an executive decision to make a movie about the Holocaust and the Nazis without brutality, featuring only German officers’ wives and Jewish women, with no concentration camps or trains to Auschwitz?” But the two black stars are defending the film. Spencer, a friend of Stockett, was particularly combative. “We’ve gotten so PC and we’ve gotten so weirded out. We start labelling. You have to be a black person to write about black people, you have to be a white person…” she bemoaned in one interview, not needing to finish the thought process. “I have a problem with the fact that some people are making that an issue.” The book also received the imprimatur of Oprah Winfrey, the Mississippi-born talk- show queen whose views carry great weight with her overwhelmingly female and African-American audiences. The Help was described as a “favourite book” on her website. Stockett, a recently divorced mother of an eight-year-old daughter who worked in the magazine industry in New York before moving back to the South, is now working on her second novel, another tale of women, this one set during the Great Depression. The writer addresses some of the criticisms of The Help in a newly published version of the book. She denied that, despite the coincidence of names, her brother’s housekeeper was a model, saying she had barely met the woman. Rather, she wrote that the inspiration for the character was Demetrie, her beloved childhood maid who largely raised her after her parents divorced when she was six. “The Help is fiction, by and large,” she continued. Yet as she wrote it, she wondered what her family would say – and also what Demetrie, by then long dead, would have thought. She acknowledged that she was breaking what some have seen as a cultural and literary taboo. “I was scared a lot of the time that I was crossing a terrible line, writing in the voice of a black person,” she said. “What I am sure about is this: I don’t presume to think that I know what it really felt like to be a black woman in Mississippi, especially in the Sixties. I don’t think it is something any white woman at the other end of a black woman’s paycheck could ever truly understand.” But, she concluded, “trying to understand is vital to our humanity”. Loyal readers and cinema-goers might agree with these motives. Her critics, as adamantly, do not. As British box offices prepare for a lucrative new release, the polarisation shows no signs of abating. 'The Help’ is released on Wednesday in Britan.