In Memory

Tomorrow is Memorial Day, which evokes many memories from my childhood when all the men were soldiers and every life was a picnic. It is funny, most of those old soldiers are gone, but their memory lingers.

The other day I took some of my handmade dolls downtown to place in Hunt Insurance's office window along with art by a number of members of the Wednesday Morning Artists. The group meets each Wednesday (naturally!) to discuss the arts and to find ways to celebrate the talents we have been given. The window display turned out to be really beautiful and if you haven't seen it yet, I urge you to stop by next time you visit downtown Cambridge. Jim Duffy and the Main Street Committee are really making a wonderful change for Cambridge!

As such, I always try to celebrate on the holiday, and today I am not only flying the flag over my porch, I also have my brother's service flag, earned with 20 years of service in the US Navy in that flag case that makes a place to display my patriotic doll. (I sent him an email as he lives in Rapid City!)

I hope everyone who reads this takes a moment to think of the soldiers who have helped keep America safe. We salute you!

PS: Have a great day, a great picnic and keep on the sunny side! Terry

FLY YOUR FLAG!

I learned to love holidays
From my father
Who loved a party
For any small reason.

The Fourth of July
Is special to me,
Maybe because I love
Our beautiful flag.

Red, white, and blue
Raise my heartbeat
When I see a house
Decked out for the day.

I know who sewed
That first banner,
We have a cherished
Legend ready-made!

But who told Betsy
Where to place the
Stars and stripes?
Was it George? Or…

Did someone else
Stop at her door to
Order a flag so able
To tell our humble history?

I like to think God
Had a hand in the
Design of red and white,
The field of blue.

If you have a flag
It should fly today,
But even more
On the third, or the fifth!

Earthshake and Rain

I am watching the weather patterns across the states, and while it is plain that thousands of people are in harm's way as the water rises, this is nothing new. Johnny Cash sang about floods in the 60s, and Noah had him a real time with rising waters long before people could read and write American.

My heart goes out to the displaced families, to those who lost pets and household goods, and lawnmowers and such. No one should have to endure such losses. It has to be heartbreaking.

And yet, as I watch, I am reminded that the stuff we own owns us; that the cars and boats and fancy electronics have little to do with the real life we live - and wonder if these catastrophes don't hold a lesson for us all. Maybe it is time to sit down and think about how we can do with less - instead of more and better clothing, cars and cell phones.

Nearly every house on my street has a porch - an extension of one's living room meant for relaxation and social interaction with the neighbors up and down the street. Today, thanks to the media, a congregation of people on a porch is more likely to signal something illegal underfoot.

I have lived in my home for over seven years and my neighbors barely speak although they are often out there walking the dog and tinkering with their vehicles at the curb. They don't speak - even when I do.

Maybe we need the cleansing waters to come and adjust out thinking about what is valuable and what is not? It is something to think about.

In the meantime, it is supposed to rain this weekend, so I hope you find a way to keep on the sunny side! Love, Terry

Earthshake and Rain

There was an earthshake the other day
And that brought on a grief reaction
That reflected our puzzlement and anger
That the planet should do us that way.
We all know perfectly well that
When buildings fall, it is not the fault
Of the sand on which we build ….
Or the men who draw the plans.
But wait!
The fault is the fault!
That fissure deep in the ground
That moves and turns so
Things go out of plumb and
Building blocks fall like rain.
And then the rain falls three states away
Flooding the flatlands,
Washing away houses and frogs,
Carrying new topsoil to cover
The croplands and meadows
Where the grasses grew for time out of mind
And we try to say that a flood is wrong
When all of this is normal
All day long.

Do Me a Favor?

As many of you know, I have published 18 books and have a few more projects underway. Writing has been my calling and I have spent more than 40 years with pencil and yellow legal pads, portable typewriter, early computer and a succession of tech-y wonders during my lengthy career.

I need to make it clear I never would have wandered down this path if there were no other choice. I was made to write, and I have done my best to stay true to that call. It wasn't always easy.

What, you may ask, has this to do with those who read my novels and poetry? A lot - perhaps.

Today I am writing to ask that if you have read one of my books that you go to Amazon.com or Kindle (in the case of my e-books) and post a review. It is easy and doesn't cost anything.

As you may know, the last five novels on my list: Chesapeake Harvest, Chesapeake Destiny, Chesapeake Legacy, Chesapeake Visions and Vienna Pride were all novels, but based on the history of the Eastern Shore and Dorchester County. I've done my best to show how people lived - their struggles and joys, their heartaches and hopes, and how they got through the hard times.

If you liked one of my books, please consider posting a review. Thank you, and keep on the sunny side! Terry L. White

Questions

Yesterday was Easter and I traveled to see old friends for the holiday. There were children there, playing fashion show, with the littlest sister as mannequin. The food, of course, was indescribably delicious and the conversation quiet and lazy in the heat of the peninsula's warmest day of spring.

The winter has been plagued by bad news from the far corners of the world, so it is no surprise that we are tired. Nor is it a puzzle that we do not understand the wars, the natural disasters, and the need to pump ourselves up each morning just to face the day.

Do you ever wonder why God allows such bad things to happen? No one in their right mind would order up a hurricane, a tornado, or flesh-eating bacteria - but all of these are with us, and the price of gas continue to rise, taking food out of our children's mouths and leaving his parents with the vague sense that they have not done enough to provide a perfect world for their offspring despite the exhaustion that leaves them on the couch.

One thing is for sure: we will always question what the Maker sends our way and hope that we can keep it all on the sunny side. Love, Terry

Questions

Sometimes I wonder what is the real news
And what the reporters, trying to keep their jobs,
Have cooked up to go with our morning coffee.
It is all so disturbing – the threats and talk of war,
The disease we bred by hand, irradidated now.
If we don’t watch out, all those old monster
Movies will come to pass and twenty foot lizards
Will lurk in the grass near the birdbath out back
Waiting to eat your cat or to take off your head.
Sometimes I wonder what people think is all right
When the sky is red with volcano dust and the seas
Spit up strange species upon the strand for us to taste –
And the spoiled mouse with two heads is the last one –
And the cow’s milk is gone bad and the meat spoiled.
How can that come to pass when God told us all
That there would always be enough to feed each Mother’s child?
But now we watch the surge of wildest sea and ask
If the children will have a world to run after all.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to our birthright
So that now we find each evening, dark with fear and
Dreams plagued with mud and fire on hill and marsh
Destroying Eden in their miserable march to the leaden sky
When what we crave is a good night’s sleep spooned
With love and trust while the stars waltz about the sky
And the Northern lights track friendly fire from desert bands
Bent on their particular translation of holy word,
And wonder why the Creator allows it all to go on.
.

Tell Me A Story

One of the best things in my life was listening to the stories people tell me and the best job I ever had was working for the local newspaper where I got to go out into the world and listen to stories. From the number of people who still know my name more than a decade later, I must have done a good job.

I started listening to stories as a child, hanging on the grownups' words until someone hissed, "little pitchers have big ears," and the subject was dropped like a cement balloon. But I knew where the stories were and as an early reader, I had the key to the treasure house where I could hear those stories over and over

It is true I write what is generally referred to as historical fiction, but a famous warrior once said that if the author was not there when the battle was won - the thing he wrote was fiction after all. Writing and telling stories, has been my life, my love and reason to be so if you have a story to share, I would love to hear it.

In the meantime, have a great weekend and keep on the sunny side! Love, Terry

Tell Me a Story

Tell me a story I ‘ve not heard before
I promise to listen, and never to snore
To tales out of closets, and cellars and floors,
Tell me a story I’ve not heard before!

I want to see vultures wheel up in the sky,
A kid on a bike as he rolls it on by,
A story of laughter, and heartache, and pie,
Heroes that win and bad guys who die!

Please tell me a story with dark secrets rife,
A story of heaven, a tale of great strife,
A note on a pillow, a history of life,
A story of trapper, and a pioneer wife.

Do offer a memory you keep near your heart,
A yarn about people who act out their part
With verve and with passion, as life doubles art,
With stories of love that was true from the start.

I love to hear stories of people who care,
The legends of teachers who always were there,
Of firemen and doctors, and guys who cut hair,
I see all their faces and feel all their care.

There’s jokes and there’s anecdotes, I love them all,
The stories of children, the colors of fall,
I love to hear rumors, and tales that are tall,
Of monsters and ogres and days at the mall.

Please tell me a story I already know,
Stories, the crop that we nurture and grow
From the seedlings of love, and the seeds that we sow,
In the stories well told before each must go.

If you have a story, please tell me the tale,
Don’t skip any parts or die on the trail,
Weave in the sachem, the goofy, the frail
And tell it quite often – as memory may fail.

Please tell me a story, I ask this of you,
Don’t leave out a thing that goes in the stew,
Don’t leave out your feelings, or anything new –
For the best part of stories is listening to you!

Gaia's Dream

Good Day Friends,

Today I am sharing a poem I wrote called Gaia's Dream. Today we have instant access to every sort of bad news due to the flood of technology that puts the sadness of storm and quake at our morning breakfast table - just as if these stirrings of the earth have not been with us forever and ever since the world was born.

I sometimes wonder if we forget that our souls are safe - no matter what Mother Earth may send to test the limits of our patience and compassion.

Yesterday my friend Lisa and I painted my porch and sealed up a hundred years of cracks and crannies in the ancient wood. The railings are crisply white, the floor a green reminiscent of the army blankets on my childhood bed - itchy wool redeemed by virtue of warmth in winter's gale where all dreams took place under the summer sun.

On the next block are a conversation of cats, stalking one another through the new spring lilies. There are squirrels mining last year's pecans, and puppies with leash in mouth, walking themselves.

The world, you see, turns through no fault of our own. All we have to do is trust. That said, I wish you a beautiful spring day... and a walk on the sunny side.

Regards, Terry

Gaia’s Dream

Humans are so doggoned cockeyed!
We settle on the edge of the fault,
On the banks of the river,
On the cusp of the storm,
And then we wonder why
The basement floods,
The tree falls,
The heart breaks, and
The yard blows away …
And then we wonder just what
We did wrong,
Think of this:
The earth does not move
For love nor money.
She is a beautiful woman
Who turns in her sleep
Warm in the knowledge
Her children will rest
In her bosom
No matter what she dreams.

On the Work of Other Poets

From my next book: Gaia's Dream

On the Works of Other Poets

I sometimes sit and read other poets’ verse
And it occurs to me that there are as many
Views of the sunset as there are eyes to see.
I do not speak of the funny lines
That celebrate the child within, but instead of
The daffodil in the forest, a souvenir of
Some pioneer’s woman who wasted space
In the yard for that which her children could not eat.
I do not speak of the alphabet rhymes
Crafted to teach her child his letters one by one,
I do not call up the dance in giddy sunshowers
Waiting for true love to come.
I want the words that carve the stone of poverty,
The rock of war, the pangs of birth
And the joy of watching the sun emerge from
A formless gray blanket of swirling mist.
I want the words that call up the shades of men
Who died to save the world we love.
I want to hear the clang of sledge on iron,
The rasp of saw on hardwood flesh,
The sing of line the fishers cast,
The thespian’s song as he works his art,
The plane in the sky, the cop on his beat,
The cook at the grille, the sweeper of streets,
The cry of the newborn, soon silenced at breast
The secret of love kept deep in your chest,
The hope and the fear and a rest in the shade,
The debt and the prize with taxes prepaid,
The chatter of children, the purring of cats…
I want to hear these in the mind’s ear – and more
Recording our time with the splendor of yore,
A ransom of thought, and a pathway to freedom –
Hard won and hard fought…
I want to feel rainbows that lodge in the heart
The shifting of dreams that leave with no mark
I want to hear giggles of babies at play
The song of a thrush at the cool break of the day.


The masters of verse have harvested these
In a wealth of lost words that leave us a scene,
A look at the world that they so strongly weaved
In a place lost in warstorm, in dismal dark scenes.
I love the old poems, that tell who we are
The ones that inspire to follow love’s star –
The song of the sachem and the prayer feather beat
The march of time that flows down each lonely street,
The clatter of cans on trash pickup day,
The carillion that rings out and calls us to pray,
The teakettle’s whistle, the somber dark hearse
The snips, and the scraps – all the bones of great verse.
I may not be famous, I may not be known
But I will leave words to show how I’ve grown
In a world not always quite gentle or wise
But a place I have seen through the word weaver’s eyes.
The world that that God gives us to save and to mend
In the hope of sweet rest
When it comes to the end.


Makes you think! Keep on the sunny side, folks! Love, Terry