Give Thanks at Thanksgiving

Posted on November 23, 2016 by shariheinrich

In this time of Thanksgiving in the United States, I have so much to be thankful for. My childhood set me up for success—parents who loved me and taught me to be curious, to read, to push myself.

I give thanks that my parents made decisions to prepare my siblings and me for success, from the first book my mom read to me to the house they chose, focusing on a great school system and a reasonably placed industrial building for his welding business. Then there was the library—six houses away, around the corner. When my mom trusted me to solo trips, I became a library fanatic. I checked out my maximum number of books (probably five), raced home to the shade of the tulip tree or mountain ash, devoured the books, raced back to the library, and checked them in so I could pick up round two for the day.

shelves filled with books

Books, books, and more books

One day a librarian told me I didn’t need to check out my books. She never imagined I took them out and brought them back that fast; and as a kid, I didn’t know better. So my next round of books, I grabbed my five, trotted out the door, and set off the alarm.

I probably cried at being scolded, but eventually they understood the confusion. I think that was the same day my book limit was increased to more than I could possibly read in one day.

I’m thankful that I’m working hard at the day job I love, along with my after-hours “job” in creative writing. Every day, I’m chasing my dreams, and everything I am today goes back to that fateful third day of the third quarter of my freshman year at OSU, when my sister came home to me “watching” the TV. Which wasn’t turned on. She helped me dial the phone to call my parents. I wanted to change majors to English, which meant giving up my full-ride scholarship and my guaranteed job by an energy corporation upon graduation.

I’m thankful, when I cried about not knowing how I’d make money with an English major, they didn’t try to talk me into sticking with the well-paying major (summer internships, that would vanish with the scholarship, too). What did Dad say? “Do what you love, and the money will come.” Enter my research skills: who knew Columbus, Ohio, was an awesome publishing town, with two major educational publishers? And that OSU was home to the American Political Silence Review, under the management of Professor Pat Patterson and chief editor Jean Kelly, where I took on a part-time job my junior and senior years as an editorial assistant.

a tree with burgundy leaves

The Japanese maple turns burgundy. This shot is before its peak color

I’m thankful for every job I’ve had since then, educational publishers and technology firms, until the job I have today as a business analyst.

I’m thankful that my parents, my sister, have always supported me. My sister, Patti, is the big sis who breaks ground to make my tasks easier. She cheers me on. She shows me all the things a woman can accomplish if she puts her mind to it. Where I excel at words, she excels at artistry. Stained glass, cross stitch, quilting, and now her dream venture, long-arming.

I’m thankful for my health, and excellent caregivers who keep me moving. Thank you, Licensed Massage Therapist Christine Graham; Physical Therapist Vijay Nadkarni; and Doctors of Chiropractic Alicia Booher and Doug Black.

I’m thankful my friends at the Westerville Bicycle Club encourage me to find time to ride my bike now and again. I had to downsize my 3,000-mile years for 300-700-mile years to free time for my writing.

tall yellow trees form forest border

At the top of the knoll, I lose track of my varieties

I’m thankful to generous writers who mentor me. I shouldn’t name anyone from North Columbus Fantasy and Sci-Fi, for I’d surely leave names out. They’ve critiqued every chapter of my novel, River Daughter. A group of online writer friends were instrumental in helping me find my short-story chops. With their help, I went from not even making it out of round 1 in my first NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge in 2015 to taking 2nd in my first-round heat and 1st in my second-round heat, placing me in the top 40 in 2016 out of more than 2,100 people (and I’m proud of my online friend Sarah for winning! And Corrie and Maria for placing). As a whole, my online friends beta read for me, they crit pieces, they bounce ideas, they cheer, they console.  These two writing groups are my “tribe.” Writing is solo, lonely, and hard, for all that I love writing. They bring the community back into the writing, so my in-the-head time doesn’t kick my introvert into hermit.

What are you most thankful for? Tell me your story.

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Thank You, Veterans

Posted on November 11, 2016 by shariheinrich

For many years, when my bike-riding time exceeded my writing time, I rode to a cemetery each Veterans Day. My helmet off, I’d walk the grounds and pay my respects to each gravesite marked with a war—CAW, WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam. I wondered about the Veterans’ stories. What would they say about their service, their sacrifice? Who did they leave behind? What did they want to do with their life before war interrupted their plans? All I could do was say “Thank you.” It never took many graves before I’d find one where the date of death fell within the war years. It always choked me up. Even writing this, I fight the tears back out of my eyes. Men and women gave their lives defending this freedom I enjoy.

A vertical headstone, but no text on it. With a veterans marker

Blank gravestone

My biking time and writing time have reversed, and I no longer make that pilgrimage. When I do come across a cemetery on my vacations, I’ll make a point of finding the ones with the war markers. In July, my sister and I made our first visit to Kentucky’s Mammoth Cave National Park. We drove past Little Hope Cemetery on our way in, and stopped on the way out.

My sister pointed at the biggest marker in the cemetery. “I wonder who that grave belongs to.”

The 3-foot tall headstone of First Lieutenant Gentry

First Lieutenant Gentry Never Returned Home

There, in letters fading from the elements and darkening with algae, stood the story of a man’s sacrifice. His family’s sacrifice. First Lieutenant Noah W. Gentry, Company I, 813, served in World War One, and died on the battlefield in Vichy, France, 1918.

He’d have left a hole in not just his family’s hearts, but also his community’s. As a first lieutenant, Gentry was a commissioned officer. He’d probably have come from a family with prestige, been a strapping lad, I imagined, and ready to return to a college, or maybe his mama and daddy’s farm when that horrible war ended. But he’d laid down his life, fighting for our country. Rest in peace, First Lieutenant Gentry.

GAP Trail

The GAP Trail runs from Cumberland, Maryland, to Pittsburgh, PA. The crushed limestone surface welcomes bicyclists and our loaded bikes. Sites of interest abound, the history of the land. It might be a beautiful waterfall, or a memorial for a mining explosion. When traveling as a group on the trail, a common practice is to ride at the pace that allows you to enjoy the journey, and stop for photos to remember the adventure. We regroup at towns or historical sites. My friends were riding the two trails (CNO & GAP), while I was riding just GAP. Riding ahead of folks on my fresh legs, I cruised to a stop at the Dravo Cemetery in the quiet town of McKeesport, Pennsylvania. I’d been unable to stop on two previous vacations, grinding along on tired legs, and I wasn’t missing it again.

A headstone flush with the ground, no letters visible

Some headstones have been weathered beyond reading

Grave markers of the poor are the small blocks of stones, or perhaps a round field stone. Headstones flush with the ground feel the full weight of the elements. Letters are worn away until there is no trace; or perhaps no letters ever existed. Likely the family, as much as they grieved for the loss of their son or daughter, could not afford the price of carving. That’s the case of many a gravestone I’ve seen. All I can do is look skyward and once more thank this veteran for their service.

Headstone, easily legible, of Private Abraham Penman

Here lies Private Abraham Penman

In the Civil War, Private Abraham B. Penman served in Company F, 12th Pennsylvania Infantry, 1829-1862. Here lay another lad who gave his life, this time fighting one countryman against another. This stretch of the GAP Trail cuts through steel country, with small houses built to hold multiple families. Private Penman, thank you for your service.

If you’ve lost a member of your family to a war of the past, and don’t know where they are buried, try searching through the US Department of Veterans Affairs.

Thank the Wounded

For several years, my sister and I sent cards to hospitalized service members at Thanksgiving or Christmas or Valentine’s Day, via Walter Reed Medical Center at a Georgia Avenue address. Then, the sad year they were returned, I learned that the center had closed at that location. The Walter Reed page requests that if you see the Facebook post from past years with this address, you correct it—do not send cards there, as they will be returned.

The guidance used to be to write to “Service member” and to send plain cards only: glitter, fur, fuzz, any extra do-dads were a major no-no—you don’t want someone who’s recovering to get glitter in a healing wound, or have a reaction to the embellishment; if we were sending them to Red Cross to go overseas, you didn’t want a service member discovered by the glitter that transferred to their uniform. We never sealed the card in its envelope, because staff reviewed each one to ensure no hateful words were written.

Now that I know the new address for the expanded Walter Reed, I can’t tell if they’re still doing the card program for wounded vets, but it did tell me about a new opportunity:

This year you can also assist a service member, veteran and their families by providing cards they can send home to their loved ones this holiday season. The deadline for all cards including Hanukkah, Christmas and Kwanzaa is Friday, November 30, 2016.

Items to include in each bundle:

  • 3 blank holiday cards (same holiday per bundle and no glitter)
  • 3 blank envelopes with postage stamps
  • 1 short message to the service member (do not included contact information, only first name) Bundled with a ribbon

Please drop off or mail completed bundles to:
American Red Cross in the National Capital Region
ATTN: Holiday Mail for Heroes
8550 Arlington Blvd
Fairfax, VA 22031

If you would like to continue sending signed holiday cards in the traditional sense, please contact your local Red Cross office, Military Treatment Facility or VA Hospital to obtain the local guidelines.

Up-to-date information will be posted on our Facebook page and please feel free to call the American Red Cross at 301-295-1538 if you have any questions!

A selection of Christmas Cards

Cards from previous years, mail promotions, and bought specifically for those who have served

I checked the Walter Reed Facebook page, but I don’t see anything about those signed cards I liked to do. Today, Veterans Day, is a perfect one for me to go through Christmas cards left from past years, the ones charities have sent me in the mail as a “thank you” for a donation. Now I know I can send them to the Red Cross, and somewhere, a service member will be able to send a card home to her or his family. I have no excuses–I bought stamps in advance from Costco last year; I have tons of craft ribbon.

On this Veterans Day, I extend my thanks to all my friends and family, to all military, who have served our country or are currently serving. Thank you for the freedom you have allowed me to enjoy.

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Saveet Visits Again

Posted on November 4, 2016 by shariheinrich

Welts burn where Avaareet whipped me for rolling the grass more slowly than the others. I rub at my right calf, where hair no longer grows from scars long-healed. Temple life favors no one, but an orphan least of all.

Tonight I guard alone. The peace of the darkness suits me. No stars tonight means tomorrow will be another cold day. I’ll have to hide better, so no one summons me to work the grass-rolling. And food. I’ll have to scavenge that when the guard relieves me a few ticks before the sun breaks the horizon. I still might be forced into cooking breakfast, but at least that would assure I’d be fed best.

To my right, distant, a “dub” sound.  After a delay, “lub.” Others might hear only the river’s rumble, but my eyes are not the only remnant of my past life. I cringe during the drum circle, but force myself to endure it. I’ve even beaten the tonga drum myself, though its heaviness of sound rumbles through my whole body. My teeth ache from the memory. Thankfully, voices carry no pain to me. I’ve wondered why it’s these stray sounds that torment me.

The “dub” comes again. I close my eyes, accepting I might miss the shooriista. Even I cannot hear the wingbeats of that huntress, here but not here. It’s too late when she caws.

I focus on the next “lub.” I know all the animals, but none make that noise in walking, swimming, flying, slithering, hopping. The air carries this, not the ground. I’d ring the alarm bell, but I have nothing to report.

When I open my eyes, I swivel around one heartbeat at a time. No shooriista has taken advantage of my inattention.

 Saveet has visited me again, though not with this part of the scene I’ve free-written above.

Apparently, the acolytes of her temple keep her beyond busy, for she visits me during my own yardwork. She fears a giant hunting bird, a creature I’m calling “shooriista” for now. The creature makes no noise until it’s too late. The hunting cry will sound suspiciously like a rake’s tines scraping against a driveway—after I find the descriptive words that come out of a primitive landscape, not an urban one. The bird smells of earthiness, dirt rather than plants or decaying meats.

Whatever task Saveet failed at in her past life, her hearing is set in this one to compensate. Certain noises carry to her, around animals, drums; but not speaking, or plants rustling in the wind. Tonight, I know what beast approaches. I can’t spoil it, though, because I’m not sure where this scene goes yet.

The fun of “pantster” writing is that nothing’s planned. The scene goes where it wants, organically. As a writer, I’m playing. I learned during River Daughter I am not a pantster for novels. That story waffled around until I realized I needed an outline. Then, sure, the story still took it where it wanted me to go, but I had bones to guide me through the arc. That also showed me my novel needed to be at least a trilogy, for Isabella to grow where I wanted.

Now, in Saveet’s case, this is freewriting. She may have a novel’s worth of ideas, or only a short story. Right now, she’s a diversion. I play during my lunch hour, the first “creative writing” I’ve had in nearly a week. I hope you’ve enjoyed this next snippet.

What do you want to know about Saveet next? Ask, and you’ll help me discover her story.

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