This morning, as I was heading out for a brisk walk before the rains came, I found myself thinking of all the turmoil I’ve survived while treading water in the rough seas of my life during the past two years.
There’s a curse, long attributed as a Chinese curse and now debunked as simply a curse of unknown origin.
“May you live in interesting times.”
“Interesting times” appear to have been the least of the curses I’ve survived over the past two years.
Yes, I say “survived” because that’s the simplest way to look at it. The people who know me by my married name were surprised when I disappeared, probably because I never revealed the details to them.
And my writer friends? When I had to run away from the most shocking betrayal of my life, I wrote online that I wasn’t ready to write about it yet—let alone talk about it. The cheerful group of friends and acquaintances who follow me on Facebook still don’t know what happened. Heck, even I don’t know what happened. All I know is that I found myself driving ten hours a day to get to the place that I remembered for its happy times. I cried for the first forty-five minutes. My cat, Minnie, cried for the first two hours. But we stuck it out.
So, now what? As I stare at the screen before me and type a few words, cut and paste a few words, I remember someone from long ago and I stop to google an old friend’s name. I’m sure that many of us, at this age, call out to the old days and find that Google has the answers to our questions. Once I catch up with myself, I hope to reconnect with some of these old friends. Well, maybe one or two. People change.
Here in the place where I’ve landed, during the summer, I cross paths with homeless people. One night, as I stood on the sidewalk with one of them, each of us licking an ice cream cone, I asked how long he’d been on the streets.
“Ten months,” he said. He shared that he has cancer. He also has five brothers who refuse to see him.
He said, “Everybody has a story. You, me—we all have a story.”
I responded, “Yes. Now that you’ve shared your story, some day I’ll tell you mine.”
My sister has been my saving grace. I joke that she pulls me back from the ledge. Not really true because I need to stay around to see how this story ends.
Next week is our 50th wedding anniversary. I dream about him. I admit that I miss him even though our marriage was a lot less than perfect.
Due to the circumstances, I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again.
Everyone has a story. You, me—we all have a story.
My Victory Garden 1979
/in Green Living, NatureFrom the WGBH Archives:
I had gardened continuously ever since I was a child on the farm, walking down the rows of freshly planted potatoes. One of my siblings dropped the potato cutting into the trench, my mother covered the potato with soil, and I stomped on the soil to pack it down. Long rows of potatoes resulted in 2 or 3 full-size wooden steel-belted barrels in our dirt-floored cellar for winter.
Dirt was permanently beneath my fingernails, so when Boston’s WGBH had a “First Annual Victory Garden” contest in 1979, I was excited to enter my garden photo.
At age 29., I was thrilled to receive an Honorable Mention. My framed award and the winning photo of me in my Massachusetts garden that year have traveled with me for the last 48 years.
Brooke Warner and Linda Summersea
/in Publishing, writingYikes! July 21, 2016 with Brooke Warner. TEN years ago!!
Brooke writes her Substack “Writerly Things” here on Substack. https://brookewarner.substack.com/
From her BIO page:
Brooke Warner is publisher of She Writes Press. She’s a memoir coach and teacher, and author of Write On, Sisters!, Green-light Your Book, What’s Your Book?, and three books on memoir. Brooke is the weekly cohost of the Memoir Nation podcast, a TEDx speaker, and former Executive Editor of Seal Press. She writes this weekly newsletter, “Writerly Things,” and is currently (slowly) at work on her own memoir. www.brookewarner.com
YouTube Channel Content
/in Memoir, Uncategorizedhttps://www.youtube.com/@LindaSummersea
They include a Book Trailer, Interview with publicist Danette Kubana, and a 2-minute mini-movie (image shown at left) about Summersea’s experience with Body Dysmorphic Disorder.
View buying options for The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll here.
🎞️ 🎙️ ATTENTION: Are you a podcast or radio host or book club host?
We’d love to appear on your media to talk about teen depression, BDD, and/or its relationship to the pressures created by social media.
OR, The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll or other topic. The Girl is about a girl who becomes depressed at an early age, but it’s by no means a downer of a read. You’ll cheer for the girl’s successes as she comes of age. And…It’s all told in the voice of the girl!
Contact us using the Contact Us form linked above, or email: [email protected]
The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll is Available Here
/in UncategorizedThe Girl with the Black and Blue Doll is available today as an eBook and/or Paperback here at BookBaby’s online store.
Read the FIRST FIVE CHAPTERS in the Free Preview below when you click on BUY ON AMAZON.
Amazon has the eBook and Paperback.
9/11 Remembered
/in blog, Home, UncategorizedThe first al-Qaeda suicide mission under Osama bin-Laden hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center complex at 8:46 A.M. The South Tower was hit at 9:03 A.M.
Within an hour and forty-two minutes, both collapsed killing thousands and injuring thousands more—in the air, in the towers and on the ground.
At the moment, I was on Long Island, putting my suitcase in the trunk of my sister’s car in preparation for flying from Islip L.I. airport to LaGuardia and homeward bound from there later that morning.
My sister called out her front door to say that she had just received a phone call.
“The World Trade Center towers have been hit. Come inside…I’m turning on the TV.”
Long story short. There would be no flights in US air space for at least 48 hours, and longer still in the New York area. I brought my suitcase inside, and set my alarm for 3 AM in an attempt to rebook my cancelled flights.
Airline phone lines were busy day after day and night after night. I finally got through after 3 AM on Sept 15, and was able to book my return flights for a few days later.
At the time, I was living in NW Arkansas, teaching Art at a public elementary school. When I returned, I passed out 5×7″ sheets of paper along with 2 popsicle sticks to each of my students in art classes for a week. They used crayons to draw American flags and I hot-glued the sticks to their individual flags. After each class, we went outside and “planted” our flags side by side in the lawn until the school was surrounded with by a fence of flags to symbolize our country’s security—even though it had been broken that day.
God bless America.
What Does the 4th of July Really Mean?
/in Home, UncategorizedA Safe and Happy 4th of July to you. This morning, I put on my freedom t-shirt, wearing its American flag with a different feeling this year.
I can’t help but feel sad for all of the chaos and trauma in the United States and certainly, around the world. Our country is experiencing a dangerous reality that makes me sad, yet still hopeful that it can be salvaged.
I went for my usual walk to clear my head before writing and came upon a family whose youngest had just become a Naturalized American citizen that morning with a formal ceremony beneath a massive tree on a shady knoll right there in the middle of town. She swore her oath and pledged her allegiance to the United States that those of us who were born here often take for granted. The 4th of July tends to find its meaning diminished in the backyard barbecues and explosions of fireworks.
Those few minutes sharing the happiness of the newly naturalized helped me to focus on the values and freedoms that we share and hope to share with all Americans.
I went home and came across this NPR interview. It’s worthwhile to listen to the 6:54 minutes and reflect on how far we’ve come. Hopefully, we can overcome the current chaos in our government.
Five years ago, NPR interviewed great-great-great-great grandchildren of Frederick Douglas, having them read aloud the speech that their forefather delivered on July 4, 1852 before an abolitionist group. Their comments that follow are passionate and worthy.
May You Live in Interesting Times
/in Home, MemoirThis morning, as I was heading out for a brisk walk before the rains came, I found myself thinking of all the turmoil I’ve survived while treading water in the rough seas of my life during the past two years.
There’s a curse, long attributed as a Chinese curse and now debunked as simply a curse of unknown origin.
“May you live in interesting times.”
“Interesting times” appear to have been the least of the curses I’ve survived over the past two years.
Yes, I say “survived” because that’s the simplest way to look at it. The people who know me by my married name were surprised when I disappeared, probably because I never revealed the details to them.
And my writer friends? When I had to run away from the most shocking betrayal of my life, I wrote online that I wasn’t ready to write about it yet—let alone talk about it. The cheerful group of friends and acquaintances who follow me on Facebook still don’t know what happened. Heck, even I don’t know what happened. All I know is that I found myself driving ten hours a day to get to the place that I remembered for its happy times. I cried for the first forty-five minutes. My cat, Minnie, cried for the first two hours. But we stuck it out.
So, now what? As I stare at the screen before me and type a few words, cut and paste a few words, I remember someone from long ago and I stop to google an old friend’s name. I’m sure that many of us, at this age, call out to the old days and find that Google has the answers to our questions. Once I catch up with myself, I hope to reconnect with some of these old friends. Well, maybe one or two. People change.
Here in the place where I’ve landed, during the summer, I cross paths with homeless people. One night, as I stood on the sidewalk with one of them, each of us licking an ice cream cone, I asked how long he’d been on the streets.
“Ten months,” he said. He shared that he has cancer. He also has five brothers who refuse to see him.
He said, “Everybody has a story. You, me—we all have a story.”
I responded, “Yes. Now that you’ve shared your story, some day I’ll tell you mine.”
My sister has been my saving grace. I joke that she pulls me back from the ledge. Not really true because I need to stay around to see how this story ends.
Next week is our 50th wedding anniversary. I dream about him. I admit that I miss him even though our marriage was a lot less than perfect.
Due to the circumstances, I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again.
Everyone has a story. You, me—we all have a story.
My Kindergarten Best Friend
/in blog, ChildhoodMy Kindergarten best friend was also my very first friend. We were so similarly timid that we didn’t mind that our conversations were brief bits that hinted at our equally isolated upbringing. Our zen-like circuit of a cobblestone walk was our practice place for future socializing.
Visit Substack to read about my first rewarding peer relationship with another fragile soul.
My Humble Thoughts on Student Protests at Columbia University
/in Home, NewsHave we forgotten Kent State?
Visit Substack to read my post on the subject.
Today is National Caregivers Day
/in blog, Health, HomeVisit Substack to read my post on the subject.