Sometimes it is easier to be angry than sad…

Today was my first Christmas without my father.  My mother passed away several years ago, and my father died early this year.  Every Christmas since I moved back home in 96, we have spent Christmas as a family.  Before that, my parents would drive out to CA during the holiday season, either for Thanksgiving, Christmas, or both.

I have been grieving this week, and today.  Crying some.  Remembering things from the past.

One of my memories was of my mother.  When I lived in California, mom and dad would drive out twice a year – once in the spring/early summer after school got out, and once for the holiday season.  In addition to that, my mom would take the bus out twice a year – in the fall and early spring.

We usually had good visits – up until the very end.  But for years, visit after visit, no matter how pleasant of a time we had, either the day before she left, or the morning that she was to leave, something would happen, and she would get angry.  Angry with me, upset with dad, mad at my sister, who also lived out there…

It finally dawned on me that it hurt her to leave her children and her grandchildren.  She loved us, and missed us a great deal. She didn’t want to leave us so far away to come back to her home.  But if she got angry at us, that would give her a reason to want to leave.  Anger was easier to deal with than being sad and hurting.  So she would contrive to pick a fight.  That way she would want to leave.

Once I realized that, I wouldn’t let her pick fights with us anymore.  I pointed out the pattern, told her what I thought she was trying to do and why.  And eventually, with the occasional reminder, she stopped finding the excuse to be angry when she had to leave.

I was talking about this particular memory with someone a few days ago.  For myself, it has always been far easier for me to be sad than to be angry.  There have been times when I have felt angry, and stuffed it inside.  It is more acceptable for me, in my own mind, to be to cry, to feel  sad, to overeat, than to feel anger, regardless of how righteous or justified those feelings might be.  I think that sometimes I think I am depressed, when actually I am angry, and just don’t know how to recognize that anger or express it.

We so often do not even realize how we repress certain feelings – but they are still there, and they will come out, one way or another.   Feelings of sadness might come out as depression, as anger at someone else, as overeating, as falling in love over and over – just to avoid being alone…Feelings of anger might come out in the same ways.  For me, it is easier to be sad than to be angry.  For others, it is easier to be angry than it is to be sad.

This memory of my mom has helped me to try to look beyond whatever obvious emotion that I see in others.  And sometimes it has helped me to recognized when I am actually feeling anger, rather than sadness.

Sometimes it is easier to be sad than to be angry.  And sometimes it is easier to be angry than it is to be sad.  Look beyond the emotion.

 

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Word Etymology and Historical Misinformation

I have been pondering something for a few days now.  I have decided that I need to write about it.

During the month of October, I work at what has been ranked as the best pumpkin patch in Arkansas, (at least by some people and organizations) Arkansas Frontier Living History Pumpkin Patch.

I am in charge of “Indian Village” me-and-the-skins-at-ar-frontier

One of the things that I always tell my audiences when I am presenting is that while the family history is that my Grandmother’s grandmother was native American (Grandma thought Cherokee or possibly Choctaw, but didn’t know for sure) I am not culturally native American.  I tell them that I have learned from books, from taking seminars put on by the American Indian Studies department of a southern California college, and from people who are culturally native American.

Over the course of the four years that I have worked at the pumpkin patch, I have learned a few things from people who are more in the tradition and culture than I am.

A few days ago, one of our visitors, “Linda” was from Oklahoma.  She was  visiting family here in AR, and one of her relatives was on a school visit to the pumpkin patch.  After the school went on to their next activity, she lingered to talk to me.

When I was a baby, my dad carried me around town and the local college in a “Papoose carrier”, as he put it.  I share this with the students as being the closest that I come to the native American culture.  Linda suggested that I use the term “cradle board”   rather than “papoose carrier”.  She told me that “papoose” is not the best word to use.

I asked why.  She told me that “papoose” was the white man’s word, and it is better not to be used.

She went on to say that I should never ever use the word “squaw”.  Now, while I had heard that the term squaw was sometimes used in a derogatory way – indicating someone who was not married, only living with someone, I had not heard of it being a word with such negativity as she seemed to indicate.  Again, I asked about it.

She told me that the word “squaw” came from the “squalling of women while they were being raped by white soldiers and traders.”

Now, I absolutely had never heard of this.  When I got home, I started to do a little research.

I’ll start with “Papoose”.  Papoose is an English loanword.  What is a loanword?  It is a foreign word that enters the English language with little or no modification or change in either the spelling or the meaning.  Some examples found in English include “Faux Pas” – French;  “Kitschy” – German; “Modus Operandi” – Latin; “Taco” – Spanish; “Samurai” – Japenese; “Prima donna” – Italian; and “Alter ego” – Latin, to name just a few.

In the case of the word “Papoose”, its origins are said to be Algonquian.  Specifically from the Narragansett tribe.  It was first recorded by Roger Williams.  He wrote a book, A Key Into the Language of America, published in 1643.  On page 28 he lists the word “papoos” as meaning “a childe” and he lists “Nippapoos” as “my childe.”

So, the idea that the word “papoose” is a white man’s word?  About the only thing that has changed is the addition of an “e” at the end of the word.

Today?  The word is also used to mean a “child carrier”.  And for some, it is considered a derogatory term, according to at least one of the sites I looked at.  No explanation was given for why some consider it derogatory.  Perhaps because it is now believed that it was a “white man’s word,” as Linda believed.

The term ‘squaw’ is much the same.  It is another loanword. There is nothing in the word etymology history that indicates the term came from squalling women who were being raped, as I was told by that very sincere lady from Oklahoma.  Again, Roger Williams records, on page 138, that ‘Segousquaw’ is a ‘widdow’, and on page 27, ‘Squaws-suck’  is ‘woman-women’.

This is a reference a hundred years and more before the time period that Linda referenced.

As I was doing more research, I ran across a wonderful essay, Reclaiming the Word “Squaw” in the Name of the Ancestors, by Marge Bruchac.  It may be found on the nativeweb site, at http://www.nativeweb.org//pages/legal/squaw.html  In this essay, she includes the history of the word, variants, history of the introduction to the English language, and more.  I encourage you to read it.

In the process of researching, study, reading, I have come to a conclusion that disturbs me a great deal.  The history and culture of native Americans – First Nations, as they are being called in some areas – is being wrongly taught – by the native Americans themselves.

Linda was very sincere in her belief that the word “squaw” came from the squalling of women being raped, that it was a white man’s word, a derogatory word.  She had been taught that.  She is teaching that to others.  And – she is wrong.  The word “squaw” was never a white man’s word.  Was never, at least originally, derogatory.  And certainly did not come from the cries of women being abused and raped.

So, what does this mean?

A generation or more of people are being taught their own history – wrong.  The implications of this are staggering.

If you believe that something was done as a result of rape, if you believe that anytime you hear a certain word, it is meant as an insult, how easy will it be for you to work out problems with the people using that word?  And what if they have no idea that that word is considered derogatory?  Although I have not used the word in my presentations, I certainly had no idea that the word “squaw” had such a negative emotional impact until Linda told me.  And that emotional impact is an impact that should never have happened. If history had been taught accurately, if additions had not been added, the word ‘squaw’ would be respected for its true meaning.

People who already believe the worst will find it harder to find common ground, to work together, to understand each other.  And being taught a false history will make it more likely that the worst is believed.

How much of this erroneous teaching is politically motivated?  How much simply accidental misinterpretation?  How much is deliberate?

I don’t know.

I do know that I have begun to wonder how much of the history that I have been taught has been full of misinformation.  How many of the things that I think of as fact, are actually false teachings, perpetuated year after year. And have I, all unknowingly, taught others false history?

I hope not.  But that is one of the reasons why I research, study, and read.  I hope others will study history, as well.

If there are lies in what we are taught, we need to search them out and make them known.  We do not need to perpetuate lies and call it history.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Getting away from it all!

So, I have this professional development workshop tomorrow.  I fully plan on enjoying it – it is on folk music and education, and since I do arts integrated programs in schools, and I incorporate folk music into them, this was something that I really wanted.  Best of all, this collaboration between the Arkansas Arts Council and the Arkansas Dept. of Education meant that this PD gives me double credit, both as an Arkansas Arts in Education artist, and a person with a valid teacher’s licence that has to have so many PD hours a year to renew.

Now, this PD was of even more interest to me because of the location – the Ozark Folk Center.  I love the Folk center.  If I was independently wealthy, I would spend a lot of time there.  I would take a dozen workshops a year there.  I would buy an RV and virtually live in the next door RV park.  I actually worked there for one season, as one of their day musicians.  I was also on the list of square dancers and even performed a couple of times in their evening programs.

So when I learned the location of this workshop, I was faced with a choice:  Get up really, really early Monday morning and make the 1 1/2 – 2 hour drive (depending on route, weather, and traffic) or come in Sunday and camp at my favorite campground in the area.

That would be the aforementioned RV park.  Ozark RV park is literally next door to the folk center.  I mean, you walk through a gate, and you are right there.

My mom and I discovered the place years and years ago.  For a short time, we did craft fairs together.  We were doing a fair that was taking place at the Ozark Folk Center.  Mom and Dad had an rv, and mom and I were going to take the rv up, camp out in it, and do the craft fair.  When we found that the Ozark RV Park was right next door, that was where we went.

What a wonderful place.  Friendly people.  Clean bath houses.  And high quality toilet paper.  I mean, better toliet paper than I usually see in Hilton’s.  We only stayed a couple of days, but I never forgot it.  And years later, when I worked that one season at the Ozark Folk Center, I called them up and asked them if they did tent camping as well as RVs.  Well, they did.  So every weekend I worked at the Center that summer, I camped next door.

So, what did I do for this workshop?  Hauled out my tent, and set it up next door.

The impetus for me writing this post was the feeling of comfort and relaxation that I just experienced.  Although the office was closed by the time I got here, I had plenty of time to set up my tent during the light.  Then I went into town to buy ice.  I could have gotten ice from the cooler here and paid for it tomorrow – this is that type of RV park – but I elected to just go on and buy one in town.  Came back, sat down outside my tent, ate my ham and cheese wrap that I had made.  And then I just sat down and played my dulcimer a little while in the dark.  All around me was the sound of crickets and cicadas.  The occasional night-bird called.  And as I sat in the evening coolness, in the night, I felt – calm.  At peace.  Comforted.

I am under a lot of stress, financial, grief, frustration, job (lack of).  But at that moment, everything was perfect.   For just that moment, I had gotten away from it all.  I was content with who I am and where I was.

So I left that perfection to come find electricity to type a blog post.  I wanted to share that moment of peace with anyone who reads this.  And I want to encourage you to get away from it all, even if it is just for a day.  Find a place, a moment of peace and contentment, and soak it up.

And I’m going back to that peace in a few minutes.

And I want to encourage anyone coming up to the Folk Center, if you want to camp or bring an rv, try the Ozark RV Park.  It’s a wonderful place.

 

Diversity – a tribute for Father’s Day

This past weekend, I got to meet a personal hero and role model.  Her name is Nichelle Nichols.  If you don’t recognize her name, you probably recognize one of her most famous television roles – Lt. Uhura, of the original Star Trek series.

Nichell Nichols

Back when I was in college, I did a term paper on the phenomena of Star Trek.  I learned a lot of really neat things about it.  Star Trek was cancelled after the 2nd season.  But it had already generated a lot of fans.  And one of them, a lady named Bjo Trimble, (I’ve actually met her once, not that she would remember me) started a letter writing campaign that caused the networks to change their mind.  The show was renewed for a 3rd season, then cancelled again.  But it wouldn’t stay gone.  It went into syndication, and has been playing almost continuously, somewhere, since then.  Star Trek is credited with the creation of the ideas for cell phones, computer tablets, tricorders, MRIs, and much more.

The producer, Roddenberry, had some grand ideas for his show.  (I got to meet him, once, also) It was set in the future, in a time when all the nations had come together in peace and harmony.  Roddenberry wanted to show that, so he picked an eclectic cast for his lead stars – there was the Japanese, the Russian, the Scotsman, the Irishman, the African, even the Alien.  A diverse crew, all working together.  Although Roddenberry pitched the show as a “Wagon Trail to the stars” he also wanted the episodes to be more – to carry morality tales.   Many of the shows had very important messages to them.  There were messages about the results of prejudice, fascism, control, power, love – and the only reason why some of these stories were allowed to be aired is the fact that this was a science fiction show.  But the messages were applicable to the world of the 60s.

One of those messages was that of equality – equality of race, equality of sex – people were people, regardless of who they were.  The network didn’t like the fact that the crew members, and the stars, were racially diverse.  They were afraid that it would affect the marketability of the show.  None-the-less,  there she was, Nichelle Nichols.  A beautiful black woman, who was treated just like anyone else, who had authority, respect, and who was not stereotyped.  Nichols says that she was going to quit after the first season.  Only she met a fan – someone who really liked the show.  And when he heard that she was planning to quit, he looked at her and, in her words, said “You can’t.”  Who was this fan that had so much power?  Martin Luther King.  He told her that she was the only black woman on television that was in a leading role, and that was not playing a stereotype.  She was not a maid, she was not a slave.  She was a role model.  So she stayed on the show.  And became a role model for many, many people, of many different ethnic origins.  Whoopi Goldburg asked for a role in Star Trek, The Next Generation, partly because of Nichols influence.  http://www.makers.com/moments/influence-whoopi-goldberg

She also influenced current space exploration.  She became involved with a NASA program aimed at recruiting minorities and women.  Sally Ride, Guion Bluford, Judith Resnick, and Ronald McNair were all recruited through this program.  And she was part of what has been called the first interracial kiss broadcast on American Television.  I met her at a conference and attended her question and answer panel.  Someone asked her if the interracial kiss was difficult or hard for her.  Her answer?  Her great-grandparents were an interracial couple, so interracial kisses were normal to her.  I hadn’t known that, so I looked it up.  Her great-grandfather was Welsh.

So, what does all this have to do with Father’s day?  We watched Star Trek when I was a kid.  I remember it from the 60s, vaguely.  At some point, Star Trek was on Wednesday nights.  I don’t remember if this was first run or syndication.  I just remember that my family would not skip church to watch Star Trek.  But once I was sick on a Wednesday night.  And my daddy stayed home from church to take care of me, and we watched Star Trek together.  My dad was a sociologist.  He really liked Star Trek.  He really understood all those messages, some subtle, some fairly heavy handed, that Roddenberry put into his shows.

One of those shows, “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield” dealt with the ultimate results of racial prejudice.   In this show, Bele, a police commissioner from Cheron, has been chasing Lokai, a political traitor, for 50,000 earth years.  They take over the Enterprise and go back to Cheron, where they find that wars have totally devastated their planet, and they are the only two people left alive.  They beam down to the destroyed planet, and continue to try to kill each other.  Why were they so antagonistic?  One of them was white on the left side of his body, and black on the right side.  The other was the same – only reversed.  And this made the difference that destroyed their world.

Despite the heavy-handedness of the message behind that episode, it has always stayed with me.  One of the things that dad was very much against was prejudice based on race.  I used to think he was “color blind” – that he didn’t really see color in people.  I think now, that he saw color – and embraced it.

There is are a couple of passages in the Bible that I believe meant something to dad.  One of them is from 1 Corinthians 12.

12 Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ. 13 For we were all baptized by[c] one Spirit so as to form one body—whether Jews or Gentiles, slave or free—and we were all given the one Spirit to drink. 14 Even so the body is not made up of one part but of many.

15 Now if the foot should say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” it would not for that reason stop being part of the body.16 And if the ear should say, “Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,” it would not for that reason stop being part of the body.17 If the whole body were an eye, where would the sense of hearing be? If the whole body were an ear, where would the sense of smell be?18 But in fact God has placed the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be. 19 If they were all one part, where would the body be? 20 As it is, there are many parts, but one body.

21 The eye cannot say to the hand, “I don’t need you!” And the head cannot say to the feet, “I don’t need you!” 22 On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, 23 and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. And the parts that are unpresentable are treated with special modesty,24 while our presentable parts need no special treatment. But God has put the body together, giving greater honor to the parts that lacked it,25 so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. 26 If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.

27 Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.

Dad saw that everyone was different – and that was a good thing.  We were all diverse – but we were all important.  We are all, red, yellow, black, white, brown, blue, green – we are all different.  But we all bring important things to each other.  We have different experiences that have made us different people, given us different insights, different understandings.  And that is OK, and wonderful.  Because there is another passage, also.

Galations 3:26-28 says

26 So in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith, 27 for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ.28 There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. 29 If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.

While the passage in Corinthians is a passage that shows our differences, the passage in Galations shows our unity.  My dad truly believed that in Christ, we were all brothers and sisters.  We are all united.  In that sense, there is no difference between anyone.  No rich, no poor, no male, no female, no slave, no free – we are all one.

Unity.  And Diversity.  It takes everyone, with all of their different talents, working together.

Like the Bridge on the Enterprise.  A diverse group of officers, each with their own skills and knowledge, working together in unity.

This is my first Father’s day without my Father.  He would have enjoyed meeting Nichelle Nichols and listening to her stories.  I thought of him when I was talking with her, and shared the story of him staying home from church to take care of me when I was sick, and watching Star Trek together.

I hope that where ever I am, I always remember the ideas that my daddy taught me.

No Greek, no Jew, no slave, no free, no male, no female – all one, all in unity.  Yet at the same time, hand, eye, head, foot – all with our own talents and knowledge to bring to each other.

Loving your neighbor as yourself.  Different, yet the same.

I think the world would be a much better place if we would only take the time to celebrate our differences, yet remember our sameness.  Like my dad did. Like I hope I always do.

I love you, Daddy.

Dad's last portrait

 

My kids saved my life: A story for Mother’s Day

It is true.  My children saved my life.  Not once, but twice.

I’ve been thinking about the past, and thinking about the two incidents where my children saved my life.  I thought, since Mother’s Day is tomorrow, that I would share.

I married young.  I met my future husband when I was 16. I weighed around 110 – and that was with clothes and shoes on.  We married when I was 19.  I had gotten a little more growth in, weighed 120 pounds, which was pretty much my ideal weight for my height and bone structure.  But within the first six months or so of marriage, he started telling me that I was getting fat, and needed to loose weight.  Things went downhill from there.

Six years later, I was in a very deep depression.  I had suffered an almost daily barrage of criticism – I couldn’t do anything right.  I felt unloved.  I felt totally worthless.  I no longer wanted to live.  I was suicidal.  My friends would have been very very surprised by that, because I hid it well.  I always had a smile on my face.  I appeared cheerful and happy –  in fact, people often commented on how happy I always was.  And I would always think “if only you really knew…”

My 25th birthday still stands out as one of the worst days in my life.  I had been researching suicide for a couple of years, and had actually picked out the method that I planned on using.  And no, I’m not going to say how – it is too easy to do, too painless, and I don’t want to give anyone ideas.  But I would go to bed at night wishing that I would never wake up.  I had no hope, and didn’t want to go on.

But there was one thing in my life, one thing that kept me going.  One thing that I felt such responsibility for, such a duty for, and such love for, that I never actually made that attempt to end my life.  I had a baby.  And my first born was such a delight, such a joy, that I knew I could never deliberately leave my child.

So that was the first time my children (child) saved my life.

The second time happened a few years later.  I was driving down towards San Diego for something, it was fairly late at night, my youngest was in his car seat in the back, my oldest was in his booster in the front, and they were both slumped over, asleep.  I suddenly saw blue lights flashing behind me.  Now, I had not been speeding, as far as I knew all my lights were functioning, but I obediently pulled over to the shoulder of the road.  The bullhorn came on, directing me to go down this  off ramp, to a road that had never been finished.  There was an off ramp, an on ramp, but it didn’t go anyplace else.  But this was the police, right?  State Trooper.  So although I thought that was weird, I pulled down the off ramp that went nowhere.  And stopped the car, but the engine was running.  My sons are beginning to stir as the officer comes up to the window of my car with his flashlight.  I’m directed to turn the engine off, and about that time, my oldest son sits up and asks what is going on.

The officer, obviously startled, sharply asks me who that was.  I explain that it was my son. By this time, my youngest one is awake, and beginning to cry a little bit.  The officer says something under his breath about not having seen him, tells me to be careful driving, and leaves.

A few weeks later, a girl’s body was found in that area.  She was the sister of a friend, and I had actually met her once.  She was such a joy that I have never forgotten her –  and a state trooper was convicted of her rape and death.

It was dark, and with a bright flashlight shining in my eyes, I never got a real good look at the trooper who stopped me, but the general body build fit the person who was convicted.   I have often wondered what would have happened to me, if my children had not been in the car.  I’m pretty convinced that they saved me from a tragedy.

So, my kids have saved my life, not once, but twice.

Mother’s Day is a day when we honor mothers.  But this year, I want to honor my children.

I love you.  Thanks for saving my life.

 

We are all brothers

I have been looking at the issues of both the world and the US with a bit of frustration, worry, and fear.  It seems as if everyone is so polarized – so intent that their way is the only way, that they refuse to even consider finding a middle ground, finding a compromise that benefits everyone, even if nobody gets ALL of what they want.  America has become a land of the self-centered and selfish.  “I want it MY way, and if I can’t have it MY way, I’m going to make sure you don’t get anything YOUR way.  It is MY way or nothing!” is the message that a lot of today’s politicians and/or their followers seem to be saying.

And racial violence seems to be on the upswing; obvious incidences of prejudice and bias are apparent.  And unfortunately, the reaction to those incidences seems to mainly be more violence, which leads only to worsening conditions.

I was going through some old documents today, and ran across something that I wrote a couple of years ago.  I want to share it…

We Are Brothers
by
Melinda LaFevers
6/19/2014
inspired by “We are Africa” as performed by Foreign Tongues

When God knelt down in the dirt
and scooped up that ball of clay,
He rolled it and shaped it and formed it,
In His own image.
He breathed life into it and called it “Man.”
The Good Book doesn’t say He made a black man,
It doesn’t say he made a white man.
Or yellow or red or blue or green or orange or purple.
It just says he made man – and it was Good.

No one knows when the division of color came.
Perhaps, as people moved north and the days grew colder,
the longer nights and shorter days bleached out the colors.
Some people say it was the Mark of Cain
that separated the colors of man.
Science has proven that all women
came from one woman,
Deep dark in Africa.
Doesn’t matter what race, what color –
All women carry that same genetic marker,
making us all sisters with the same mother –
Eve, birthing the world in the cradle of life.
So once we were all dusky brown, chocolate, dark –
I’ve wondered if that mark of Cain
was the bleaching of his skin.

But still, white, black, brown, red, yellow –
Languages were the same.
Until man, working together as brothers,
built that tower to the heavens,
and God, looking down, stirred the people
and created a babble of voices.
That, then, truly separated the nations from each other.
Each went their own way, growing apart,
forgetting who we were, where we came from,
the fact that once we were ALL brothers.

And the years and centuries passed.
Mankind warred against mankind;
Put chains on each other.
Your ancestors wore chains.
My ancestors wore chains.
Not just our ancestors wore chains.
You wear chains. I wear chains.
Some of those chains are visible.
Some are unseen – but those unseen chains
wear men down just as much as heavy links of iron.
Ignorance, poverty, abuse –
Those chains know no boundaries.
They come to every man – red, yellow, black, white, brown.
Faces pinched with hunger look with hopelessness
at barren lives
And Death in the form of drugs, alcohol and violence
too often looks back.

The only way to defeat that death,
to break those chains of despair,
to bring All men to freedom
The freedom of love, of Hope, of a future…
The only way to break chains of
the past and present
is to remember
that you
that I

that WE are all brothers.

My first story sale.

For those who are unaware, I am a writer.  Now, I don’t just mean the occasional blog that I post (and I really need to post more often)

No, I mean I actually write fiction and non-fiction, and when I’m fortunate and blessed, I actually am able to sell them.  I have been writing poetry, songs, and music for decades, mostly for myself.

But a few years ago, I was inspired to write a story and offer it for sale.  It happened like this…

I am a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism.  This is a historical recreation group that studies the renaissance and middle ages.  They hold a large event in Mississippi in March called Gulf Wars – and by large, I mean 4-5000 people or more.  Also held in March, in Memphis, is a science fiction convention called MidSouthCon.  Usually there would be a fairly large contingent of local (and not so local) members of the SCA who would present a demonstration of fighting styles, arts and sciences, and information on joining.  This particular year, however, the last few days of Gulf Wars and MidSouthCon were being held on the same weekend.  The people who were organizing the demo were desperately needing more people to attend, so they sent out a call – if you could come, you could get a hefty discount off the entrance fee.

This particular year, I was not going to go to Gulf Wars.  I had been to a couple of conventions when I lived in California and had enjoyed them.  I took a look at the MidSouthCon website.  Oh, my.  They had professional development available for teachers who attended.  They had a full track of programming for writers.  They had science and kid activities and movies and gaming and anime…and more.  And (notice I’m repeating this) a full track of programming for writers.

I volunteered.  And had a blast. And learned a lot from the seminars and panels that I attended.  And decided then and there that I wanted to come back the following year.  But I didn’t want to pay for it.  So I decided to come back – but as a guest.

Now, I not only do I do historical re-enactment, but I also do school programs.  I am on the Arkansas Arts in Education roster, Arkansas Arts on Tour, and the Mid-America Arts Alliance roster.  My two programs are “Life in a Castle” and “Life in a Log Cabin.”  Someone who knew that I liked to write, and also that I did these historical programs, suggested that I put together a program aimed specifically towards people who were interested in writing historical fiction or non-fiction, and fantasy set in a medieval type world.  I thought that was a good idea, so I had already started thinking about it.

When MidSouthCon rolled around the next year, I applied to be a guest.  Now, what I didn’t know, was I should have applied about two months earlier.  When I got the response back, I was told that I had applied too late to have my own presentation – however, they wanted to put me on a couple of panels.  So they did, and I was thrilled.

Lee Martindale moderated one of the panels I was on.  At the end of the panel, she announced an open call for a new anthology.  The title was The Ladies of Trade Town, and the theme was the oldest profession.  Everybody burst out laughing.

Lee went on to say that she did NOT want erotica, she did NOT want heavy horror, but light horror and any other genre was acceptable.  Everyone is still laughing.  Into my mind came the thought,

“That’s NOT the oldest profession.”

then,

“What IS the oldest profession?”

At that moment, I had a vision.  Adam, Lilith (who according to some myths was Adams first wife) and the serpent are all LOUDLY arguing over who had the oldest profession.

On the seventh day.

When God was trying to rest.

The story wrote itself in about 15 minutes, and became the first story I ever sold.

So far, I have sold a handful of stories to anthologies, a thin non-fiction book of self-affirmations and meditations, a few newspaper stories and features, and I write a magazine column on herbs.  I also have two or three fantasy novels and one science fiction novel in progress, and I have finished a couple of children’s picture books.  Hopefully I will eventually get them all published.

Oh, and the world’s oldest profession?  You’ll have to buy the book to find out.  It is the last story. .Ladies of Trade town cover