Video Book Review: Love & Salt

This is my first video book review, a review of Love & Salt: A Spiritual Friendship Shared in Lettersby Amy Andrews & Jessica Mesman Griffith.  (excuse the early audio, not sure what happened)

Check out Jessica’s webpage, or read more about Amy and their book at Loyola Press.

I attempted this video review a couple of days ago, but was interrupted by a bat. Despite my abject horror at the sight of a bat flying around my house, and my inane response (calling out for a 17-year-old to save me), I laugh every time I see this video, so I’m including it for your enjoyment.

Stay tuned for more book review videos in the future, along with a video tour of my home office, my favorite place to read and write.

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Book Review: Counting the Days While My Mind Slips Away

Reviewed by Mary Jedlicka Humston

While Counting the Days While My Mind Slips Away: A Love Letter to My Family might appear an unusual book for our blog, the title intrigued me with that one word: letter. And, more specifically the words: love letter.

This book’s topic is about football and dealing with severe brain injuries due to concussion, but it is also a letter of love that Super Bowl Champion Indianapolis Colts tight end Ben Utecht wrote for his family. (with Mark Tabb) He writes his thoughts as a love letter to his wife Karyn and four daughters (although the book is written as a memoir, not as a collections of letters). It’s all the more pertinent because he is currently living with the side effects (in his case, severe memory loss) of what he is believed to suffer with: CTE, (chronic traumatic encephalopathy) a condition resulting from repeated head blows and concussions.

Current research has proven a link between CTE and football, but the condition is impossible to diagnose while the player is still alive. In fact, an autopsy on football players’ brains currently is the only definitive way to attain a diagnosis. Recent news reports highlight a study, conducted by Dr. Ann McKee, a neuropathologist at Boston University School of Medicine, which was published in The Journal of American Medical Association in late July, 2017. The study shows that depression, memory loss, cognitive trouble, changes in behavior and/or mood, and addiction are symptoms indicative of severe brain injuries associated with concussions sustained during football.

Five major concussions are documented during Utecht’s football career. That’s not counting the multiple mild brain injuries he also suffered. Writing this book allows him to record his memories for his family should he ever reach a point where his memory loss interferes with recalling important events from his life.

One poignant segment of the book stands out for me. He is chatting with his wife Karyn and two good friends about the couple’s recent marriage. As the conversation continues, Utecht becomes angrier and angrier. How can they be so rude as to talk about this wedding while he’s sitting there? He was best friends with the groom and yet he was not even invited to the wedding. When he finally unleashes his anger and deep hurt, he immediately sobers when shown a photo, not only proving that he attended the wedding, but that he was a groomsman.

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Counting the Days While My Mind Slips Away: A Love Letter to My Family (2016) is heavy with football stories and language, but it’s also a personal story of triumph and determination and how Utecht perseveres despite the challenges he faces. He has also become well-known for singing (he’s sung with Christian singer Sandi Patty and has frequently sung the National Anthem at sporting events). A beautiful song results from that love letter he wrote his wife and his daughters that I mentioned at the beginning of this review. As a nice accompaniment to the book, I’d advise you to watch the You Tube song/video inspired by that letter: You Will Always Be My Girls.


Even though I didn’t understand all the football language and some play-by-play action, I recommend this book. It especially becomes more pertinent since CTE has been in the news so much lately.

Book Review: The Story You Need to Tell

“After unearthing twenty-seven journals from dusty shelves and long-forgotten hiding places, I began reading them. I thought I would skim through them, a glass of red wine in hand, in two to three hours. Wrong. A week later I was still caught up in the thick of them. I learned how I opened up as a thinker. How I loved to read and explore books. I learned how some authors captivated me, while others tied me in knots. How writer Christine Baldwin taught me the value of keeping a journal for life. How I became a writer. How ideas intrigued me. How becoming a mother changed and fascinated me.”

I was hooked as soon as I read those words. As we’ve shared on this blog, Mary and I recently delved into our own journals and daybooks. Mary is still working her way through hers.

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I picked up Sandra Marinella’s The Story You Need to Tell: Writing to Heal From Trauma, Illness, or Loss as research for my upcoming workshop, “Expressive Writing for Healing” offered in August at Hawkeye  community college in Cedar Falls, and in September at NICC in Dubuque.  As I’ve noted before, unlike my Mary & Me co-author, I really didn’t journal much until after my husband died, when I instinctively turned to writing to work my way through grief.

journalsIn fact, I couldn’t stop writing. I blogged, filled pages of my journal, wrote essays, letters to my friend Mary, and worked on several books, including what would become Refined By Fire: A Journey of Grief and Grace

Knowing how much expressive writing had helped me, I began delving into the science behind it, reading books and articles by James W. Pennebaker, the man who was at the forefront of research on the connection between expressive writing and healing. I’ve written about Pennebaker many times, mentioning him in both my upcoming grief journal and my workshops, as well as previous blog postings.  While Marinella discusses his research in her book, she also frequently refers to her mentor, Christina Baldwin, author of Storycatcher: Making Sense of Our Lives Through the Power and Practice of Storya book I immediately added to my Amazon cart. That’s what happens when I fall in the rabbit-hole of research; I invariably add to my to-read list. The topic of journaling doesn’t just apply to my workshops; I have a grief journal coming out in May, am including a chapter on expressive writing in my book on creativity, and will be utilizing journals for the GriefShare grief support group I facilitate at a local church and the Lifelong Learning creativity group I’m forming this fall at the library where I’m employed.

The writing prompts at the end of each chapter in The Story You Need to Tell are some of the best I’ve ever seen. I’ll be utilizing some of them in my monthly memoir group, where members often request a writing prompt assignment.

Sandra Marinella is an award-winning teacher and writer. After facing breast cancer in 2012, she turned her focus from teaching to writing as a way of healing, and began volunteering with veterans and cancer patients. Some patient’s stories, and their life transformations, are featured as examples in her book. Sandra founded the Story You Need to Tell Project at www.storyyoutell.com.

The author doesn’t shy away from telling her own stories, which makes this book all the more powerful. Can we really talk about expressive writing without sharing some of our own? One of the most touching chapters for me was the one on healing from loss. Marinella had some pretty intense conversations with her father while he was dying; discussing death, prayer, and faith. Since they shared a love of music, the author asked him to try and communicate with her through music after he died. He loved the idea.

“One day after we arrived home, my dad mouthed his last word to me, Mom. I promised to care for her. And she hobbled over to hold his hand. Two days after he made it home, my dad took his last breaths with his love, my mom, and his family gathered around him. In those moments he radiated serenity, a transcendent beauty. For long moments we stood in hushed awe around him. 

After he passed, we sang and prayed. My brother recited Psalm 23, and then we stood reverently by his side. And in that holy moment- Standing by my father and his soul- my head was filled with the joyful clanging of church bells.’Do you hear them?’ I asked my family.”

A Different Journaling Journey

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My foray into past journals is not nearly as pleasant as that of my friend and co-author of Mary & Me. Unlike the other Mary, I did not keep a journal through college, and the “daybooks” that span 20 years of my life could hardly be called journals, with little space for contemplation, rumination, or poetry, if I’d been so inclined to write any.

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The first daybook is dated 1992. I was a 32-year-old mother of four when I began filling daybooks with notes about the weather, my children, my super coupon shopping sprees and mailbox full of refunds and trades, a distinct lack of money and time, and notes on whatever I was working on in regards to the freelance writing I’d been doing since 1987. By March of that year, I’d picked up work as a correspondent for the Bulletin-Journal newspaper in Independence.

I was also ill, as is evidenced by repeated references to upset stomachs, headaches, joint pain, brain fog, and an extreme fatigue. By early 1992, I’d been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and prescribed a medication to treat one of the worst symptoms, the one that had relegated me to the bathroom for much of each day during 1990 and 1991.

I don’t have daybooks from the previous two years, but I do have doctor’s reports, hospital admissions papers, and a chronological list of symptoms I took with me to the doctor who I believed saved me. He was the first one (of many doctors) to listen to my litany of symptoms and not dismiss me as a hypochondriac. This doctor, who I am still loyal to some 25 years later, was willing to consider that I was suffering with an immune system disorder that there was no definitive medical test for, and suggested we begin treatment by targeting the worst symptom of an illness that ruled my days.  Up until that point, I had seen a number of specialists who’d zeroed in on only one of the many symptoms, ran tests, and then declared me perfectly healthy, their eyes narrowing at my continued distress. One ER doctor pulled my husband aside and told him to quit coddling me because there was nothing wrong with me. Another insinuated I was a bored housewife with nothing to do but complain. A doctor I had trusted up until that point had the audacity to look me in the eyes and ask, with some irritation, why I had to find out what was wrong with me, telling me I should just learn to live with it, whatever it was. He then prescribed tranquilizers and an anti-depressant. The next morning, I took one of the pills, set my children in front of the television with bowls of cereal, collapsed on the couch and apparently slept through a tornado siren, because I woke up to two children screaming, a darkened sky, and the front porch screen door slamming against the side of the house. I hustled my children to the basement, and never touched those bottles again.

That’s the thing about delving into old journals, or in my case, daybooks~ we resurrect less than pleasant memories. Both Mary and I unearthed our respective “journals” when we wrote our chapters on navigating young motherhood. At the time, I’d quickly returned the daybooks to the cupboard where I store them; it was too painful to look back on those years of zero time for myself, the constant struggle to make ends meet, and of course, the reminder that, despite his failings during many of those years, I’d had a partner to share in all of it, a partner that was no longer there.

I had to do the same thing last night. I nearly threw the daybook I was reading into the trash. I was actually surprised that my January 1992 goals had not only included “getting my health back, though I’m not sure I have any control over that,” but also “formulating a refund workshop for community colleges,” and “getting work with the local newspaper.” What possessed me to think it would be a good idea to find work when I was dealing with a chronic illness? And yet, later entries demonstrated how much that little extra income helped our family, and the fact that I could work my hours around both my illness and my husband’s hours, made it the perfect job at the time. If I guarded my daily activities and took an afternoon nap, evenings were my best time of day, at least early evening. As is evidenced by the previously referenced November 10, 1992 notes, a midnight meeting, and subsequent lack of sleep triggered a resurgence of symptoms the next day. And yet, I somehow met that newspaper deadline. While I wouldn’t meet either of my other two goals for 1992, a pregnancy in 1993 brought remission of my illness and reclaimed my health, and four children and nearly 20 years later, I’d reach the goal of teaching an extreme couponing workshop at a community college. Proving that sometimes, our dreams become our reality, though not always in the time frame we’d desire.

From my research into the health benefits of expressive writing and journaling, I can’t help but think that a real journal, one in which I could have filled several pages with rumination and contemplative thoughts, would have been beneficial to me during those next twenty years when I utilized a daybook. I didn’t begin actual journaling until the morning after my husband’s death, and since 2012, I’ve filled three journals, and am close to filling the fourth.

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Ironically, those journals, filled with anguish and the laments of a woman with a broken heart, are not at all difficult for me to look though. The difference is simple, and what I recommend in my classes on expressive writing.

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Without instruction, I instinctively did what was most healing; reflecting, and looking for meaning in my experience.

And I found it.

I often flip through the pages of those journals. Despite the messy, scrawled handwriting of a woman in deep emotional distress, I can easily see spiritual and emotional healing taking place. Because I was also jotting down Bible verses, and quotes and passages from authors who’d been down the same path of grief, I can read those verses and quotes today, experiencing the same feeling I did when I copied them; a lifting of the spirit, and a sense of being a part of something so much bigger than my own pain.

I filled several pages of the first journal with an itemized list of the unusual experiences that preceded David’s death; my teen daughter, Emily, joining a youth group, her incessant need to hug her Dad, the many workshops and a newspaper column I’d recently undertaken, the newfound friends I’d made at a Christian Writer’s conference, our newly acquired taste for the Christian radio station, the many conversations I’d shared with David in the previous three months about love, faith, and even remarriage, and how often I’d caught him gazing at me in apparent adoration. Then there was his life insurance policy being reinstated just 27 days before his death, and the last book he’d touched having been a Cecil Murphey book on getting to heaven. It became obvious to me that God had gone before us, preparing us for loss of husband and father.

Those journals tell a story as I wrote my way through grieving David, and then a few months later, facing the loss of a grandson. And while it is a heart-rending one, the story contains a clear message of hope. I wouldn’t mind future generations reading these journals after my death.

The daybooks? They tell a different story; a dismal rendering of the chronology of my day-to-day life without the benefit of any reflective or contemplative time spent in which to look for meaning in those days. While they remain stored in a cupboard for now, someday I’ll have to decide if there is any benefit to keeping them at all.

A Journaling Journey

by Mary Jedlicka Humston

Mary and I both journal. In fact, I shared some of my journal entries in the “Oh, Baby!” chapter of Mary & Me: A Lasting Link Through Ink (pgs. 55-60). I possess over 40 journals, most tucked away in a crowded, little closet in one of our guest bedrooms. I’ve been writing my feelings in them since I was 19 years old. It has helped process the multitude of experiences I’ve faced in the course of several decades of life. Special quotes and letters are also glued among my entries.
For many years now I’ve wanted to re-read them. Yes, all of them. So, I decided the time was ripe this summer. While I’m only up to journal number four, and have a long way to go, it’s been an interesting journey so far.

Surprises await with the turn of a page. A tiny paragraph about “jim h.” and how much I liked him makes me smile now since he has been my husband for 40 years. Names of college friends. Experiences I’d forgotten. Old songs important enough to write down the titles.

And, then there are the poetic musings. Some are actual poems; some just random thoughts. Several years ago I “mined” the first two journals from my late teens and early 20s and discovered quite a few old poems. I submitted a few “as is” and, joy of joys, they were published. Reworking others provided even more acceptances. Can you imagine the fun of still liking that poetry enough to send it out into the world?
One of the surprises was this phrase from January, 1975.

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Those 12 words resonated enough that a few years ago I created two different poems from them.
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Pirouette was accepted for the 2013 Iowa City Poetry in Public Project. These poems are placed on posters and scattered around town and displayed on city buses. At that year’s Iowa City ArtsFest, I had the pleasure of reading it alongside others who read their Poetry in Public poems, too. Pirouette was also selected as a “Poem of the Week” for the National League of American Pen Women (NLAPW) website. Mary and I are both members of this 120-year-old organization.

And, what an unspeakable delight to have it chosen to be one of the poems representing the UNESCO Iowa City of Literature for the “Poems on the Wall” in Krakow, Poland, in conjunction with the UNESCO Krakow City of Literature. For one 24-hour period, it was projected on a downtown wall in Krakow, alternating between the Polish and English languages. That in itself was amazing, but when a dear friend returned from a trip to Poland and said she actually saw my poem on that wall? Well, all I can say is that was an experience of a lifetime.
Here’s the other poem that evolved from that original phrase in my journal.
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This sweet little haiku won First Place in a poetry contest at the NLAPW 2014 Biennial Letters Competition. What an honor!

So, it’s easy to see why I’m having so much fun this summer as I re-read my journals. Who knows what phrase or thoughts will turn into my next poems? I can’t wait to find out.

Book Review: Letter to My Daughter

Reviewed by Mary Jedlicka Humston

Maya Angelou.

I believe everyone in our country knows of this acclaimed poet/writer. Like me, many have probably read or at least heard of I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. My friend Denise and I even had the good fortune to attend our local performing arts center years ago to hear Ms. Angelou speak and recite her oh-so-true-to-the-heart poetry.
So, how is it that I hadn’t heard of Letter to My Daughter?

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When I checked the publish date, I had my answer. 2008. The year I had stage 3 thyroid cancer surgery, treatments, and recovery. The year destructive flooding occurred not only in Iowa City (where I live) but in many parts of Iowa, destroying homes, businesses, and even University of Iowa buildings (including the performing arts center). It was a year where staying current with the literary world took a back seat to living the world around me.

However, finding this gem now was well worth the wait. Short essays fill Letter to My Daughter with a variety of Angelou’s deeply personal experiences to laughter to poetic reflection to memoir.
While Angelou never had a daughter, she writes as if readers belong to her family, thus pulling us right into the meat of her life.

I love her introduction.
“I gave birth to one child, a son, but I have thousands of daughters. You are Black and White, Jewish and Muslim, Asian, Spanish-speaking, Native American and Aleut. You are fat and thin and pretty and plain, gay and straight, educated and unlettered, and I am speaking to you all.”

The chapters are short, headlined by such titles as “Violence,” “Accident, Coincident, or Answered Prayer,” “Reclaiming Southern Roots,” and “Salute to Old Lovers.” The length allows this book to be read for a few minutes, set down to digest, and then picked up again so the reader never loses momentum for the next slice of Angelou’s life.

In Letter to My Daughter, Angelou invites us into her vibrant, wise, and honest world. I highly recommend that you accept her invitation.

Book Review: Chasing Slow

“Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?” –Mary Oliver

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I know it’s going to be a good book when, only a few pages in, I pull out a paper and pen to take notes, then get so lost in the narrative I abandon all note-taking. Chasing Slow: Courage to Journey Off the Beaten Path by Erin Loechner is just such a book. Before I became too engrossed, I did manage to jot down this tidbit;

“There is a lion inside us all. It reigns over pace and time and intention, and it lingers in the rooms of our hearts daily. It roams, searching for the reasons we were place on this planet- our passions, dreams, abilities- and it scoffs at the demands of our daily lives- our schedules, responsibilities.” (page 18)

Yes. Oh, yes.

This same thing has been up for discussion in recent letters between the two Marys. The demands of life and lack of time are not new topics for us. In Mary & Me, we both mention time being at a premium during our early mothering years, though mine stretched out far beyond hers. I still have two daughters remaining at home.  Readers of our book also know that of the two of us, I’m the one who has struggled with envy over the amount of time other women seem to have, especially those who don’t have to work outside the home.

What does the lion in each of us want, we’ve recently wondered (only we didn’t use the term lion, but our own desires), and how does that align with God’s intention for us? During Mary’s visit last week I mentioned our mutual friend, and the book she was working on.

“I’m not in a hurry,” the woman had told me, and with that pronouncement, it was instantly clear to me that I am. 

“I am in a hurry,” I told Mary. “I’m always in a hurry. And it’s never enough. No matter what I do, I want to do more. I want the book proposal written. To finish my next book.”

I’ve also bemoaned my greediness with time in recent letters to Mary. Since I’ve changed jobs, I’ve dropped in hours,opening up more mornings. I’ve always utilized morning time for writing, even during the years I was raising young children, when I’d get up at 5:30 a.m. just to savor a precious hour or two. I lost that morning time to an office job for 18 months, and nearly came undone in the process. With my new job, I have five of seven mornings free, and I’m making the most of them.

“And still, it’s not enough,” I lament to Mary. “I hunger for more. More time. More hours to myself. More speaking engagements. More workshops. What’s wrong with me?”

Or, if we are speaking lions, why is my lion so restless, so loud?

“We fluff this great pit with our ego boosts, our need for control, our unrealistic expectations, and soon our days are dictated by its excess. The lion sulks around our soul, pacing for his next meal, hungry for more than we are throwing his way. Perhaps we are feeding him the wrong thing.” (page 19)

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It fascinates me that for the majority of the book, I was seeing the author’s unique style of chapter headings and her numbered “lists” in the sidebars as 00:01.

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Not 001. 002. 003. But 00:01, 00:02, 00:03. Like a clock. Quite telling, don’t you think?

Perhaps it’s natural I would be starved, ravenous even, for time. For the majority of my adult life, my time has not been my own. That same mother who trudged down the stairs in her pajamas at 5:30 a.m. for a moment’s peace, would inevitably be called back up by a baby or toddler’s cry on the baby monitor before long. Factor in the logistics of mothering eight children in an attachment-style manner, and there wasn’t much “me” time. Of course I want more now, when I finally have some.

But according to Erin Loechner’s wonderful book, more will never be enough.

“It can’t be counted or valued or summed or justified. More is always, by definition, just ahead at the horizon. That’s why we never stop chasing it. More is never enough.” (page 87)

Of course, Erin wasn’t talking about time here, but stuff. It was material possessions, fame and fortune, she made a conscious decision to minimize. In Chasing Slow, she turns away from her viral and HGTV fame and frenzy to shift her focus to the journey that matters most; her husband’s brain tumor, bankruptcy, family loss, a baby. Not only does she say no to some choice opportunities, she empties her closets, and pares down possessions, carting bags of excess to Goodwill.

My chase for more time is still a chase.

“We can throw it all at the lion and watch as he devours it like scraps of meat; the fast life, the slow life, the more, the less. We can exhaust ourselves with our offerings. We can keep tabs, keep pins, keep watch, keep score, keep track.” (page 281)

“Why do you always have to be doing something?” was my husband’s lament when I begged off sitting on the couch next to him to watch television, or I was too intent on finishing something up at my desk to lie next to him for a nap. Too late now, I can no longer do either. What drove me to be incessantly busy?

I believe part of the answer lies in the words I recently transcribed to my journal from Mary DeMuth’s memoir, Thin Places.

“I cannot stop. I must always work. I must always prove that I am worthy to take up space on this earth.” 

Maybe all of the former “raggedy little girls,” as DeMuth describes her childhood self, feel that way.

I need to remind myself daily that God put me here for a reason, that He has plans for me. He gifted me with the same 24 hours in a day he gave everyone else. I don’t have to “do more,” “be more,” “work faster” to gain the grace He has freely given me.

Life’s answers are not always hidden where they seem. It’s time to venture off the beaten path to see that we’ve already been given everything we need. We’ve already arrived. (from the back cover of “Chasing Slow”)

Some of my takeaways from this book:

  • The author married a man with a brain tumor, but she still had to figure out how to put him first. According to her, that was ten years. I was married for 27 years before a stint of caregiving when my husband went through cancer treatment taught me that valuable lesson. I’m grateful for the bonus five and a half years we shared after that.
  • Sometimes, the answer (to more) should be NO.
  • The lion inside of us can be a real beast.
  • God is in control.
  • Sometimes, less is more.
  • The next time Erin Loechner gets rid of her stationery, I think she should give it to me.

You can check out Erin’s website Design for Mankind by clicking HERE. Read the first chapter of Chasing Slow HERE.

Book Review: Chilbury Ladies’ Choir

Review written by Mary Jedlicka Humston

The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir by Jennifer Ryan, has a unique format. It is told entirely by the letters and diaries of five women and girls. That interesting aspect alone would appeal to both of us Marys, who are letter-writers-extraordinaire, but the multitudes of friendship stories Ryan weaves throughout the novel also draws us in.

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Middle-aged Mrs. Tilling writes in her journal. Letters from Miss Edwina Paltry to her sister Clara reveal an underbelly of deceit and plotting. Venetia Winthrop’s letters to Angela Quail show their growth from twittering flirts to mature young women. Young Silvie, a Jewish refugee from Czechoslovakia, keeps a minimal diary. And, then there’s impetuous and curious Kitty Winthrop who fills her diary with teenaged musings while trying to understand the changes war brings to her hometown.

“You need to find where you fit in this world, where you are happiest, where you can make a difference. And, don’t be afraid of change.” (pg. 364).

This comment from Kitty, 13, “almost 14” as she continually reminds everyone, becomes a basic theme of the novel. With the men of the community off to war, the vicar declares the church choir defunct. The women are concerned about losing their singing community until they realize they can create a choir themselves if they overcome the uncertainty of establishing such an unprecedented proposition.
Well, I don’t think we were doing very well at all until one spring day the new choirmistress arrived and got us singing again. She resurrected the choir, making it a women’s-only choir—the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. It seemed such an unthinkable idea at first, but then we won a competition and realized how much better we were, and how we could transform ourselves into a charity singing show, or anything we liked. Well, after that we all began looking around and realizing we could do a lot of things better by ourselves, or with the help of each other, and together we became stronger, better: A force to be reckoned with.” (Kitty, pg. 368).
The five ladies’ letters and diaries relate the stories about the choir and war life. They show how the entire community pulls together despite hardship, loneliness, death, challenge, and sadness.
I highly recommend this book. The reader will definitely be swept along by its riveting storyline.

Say it With a Stamp~

This is my outgoing mail this morning. Mary had recently asked me where I was getting the old stamps I’m using on my recent letters.

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Readers of our book and blog already know I am a stationery and paper addict. I don’t do “mail art,” per se, though I am fascinated by those who do. But I am a bit odd in that I enjoy using pretty envelopes, interesting address labels, or…stamps.

For instance, I had these address labels made from a photo of me on the beach, an experience I’ll never forget. I mostly save them for the letters I send to my sister, Joan, who was responsible for my opportunity to see the ocean. It was her home we stayed in while we visited Florida. She and her husband David took us to the beach.

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For awhile, I was ordering PhotoStamps kits on ebay, purchasing as many as 10 sets (that make 20 stamps) for $72. You don’t need to be a math wizard to figure out that meant I was getting personalized stamps for less than the cost at the post office. ($7.20 for 20 stamps)

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When that seller discontinued selling kits, I found another resource for unusual stamps; a collector who sells his excess on ebay under the name of jeweleryandtreasure, at a discount. It was the book and writer stamps that lured me in. So now I have a drawer full of lovely postage to decorate (and mail) my letters with.

And you can too, if you are so inclined. Just check out his stamp listings by clicking HERE. You’re welcome.

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Half Price stationery find

Do you have a Half Price Bookstore near you? Click HERE to see. My daughter Elizabeth gave me a Half Price gift card for Christmas, and I’m glad I saved it for something special. It’s a rare find, but when I stopped there last week, I discovered boxes of lovely stationery priced at $5.99. I have the educator’s discount card so got a 10% discount. I’m sure we all agree I couldn’t pass up that deal. You might want to check out your local store to see if they have the same stationery in stock.

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