I'm very busy raising an eight year old grandson who has cerebral palsy and is blind in one eye.
I'm editing several novels and have completed two illustrated poetry books. Currently I'm looking for interested publishers.
Would love to keep in touch with everyone who enjoys my poetry but there is never enough time. If you'd like updates on what's going on, you'll find it here.
Newsletter Dated: 8/4/2003 1:47:32 PM
Subject: Sandy's Chatterbox
We area going to be extremely busy for a while. We're going for Portland on Thursday (follow up visit for Doogie), leave again on Friday for Utah (to stay for a week), return for two days, then we take Doogie to his liver doctor in Portland, the next day Sherry arrives. She'll be staying for a week and a day after she leaves, Al's youngest daughter, Lisa, and her family will be coming for Labor Day week-end. Doogie starts school the day after and that Thursday we'll go back to Doogie's eye surgeon in Portland.
So far Doogie STILL can't see anything out of his right eye and it's been a week. It doesn't look good at this point but we're keeping our fingers crossed and praying.
Do keep in touch and take care.
(another of my true stories)
Dad came home, saw a pillow on my head
Come running and picked me up off the bed
“Woman use your head!”
“Wanted a son,” Ma said.
Daddy died; Momma sent me to his friends
They swore to keep me; Ma said “That depends--
How much is she worth . . .
For the pain of birth?”
Momma needed a scapegoat to torture
She offered another; “You cannot have her!”
Mama’s belt buckle
She’d strike, then chuckle
Shaken I stirred and trembled, gasping for air
Momma doused me was still clutching my hair
Bathed in a strange way
This wasn’t child’s play
I stepped on a rusty nail, my foot stuck
Ma heard me screaming then she ran amuck
She pushed the nail through
What could a child do?
Ma always wore a belt around her neck
She said to keep order, to earn our respect
Shivering in fear
With fake masks of cheer
Everybody else labeled Ma a saint
She played them a fool for a saint she ain’t
Many times I cried
Wish at times I’d died
Once in anger I struck, once I did spit
I was beaten black and blue in a fit
Momma is sleeping
Still I am weeping
Easily startled a touch bothers me
Here it’s years later . . . will I ever be free?