Groundwaters

Who are we? … the Groundwaters Staff

Jennifer Byers Chambers

Jen Chambers was one of Judy’s first volunteers with Groundwaters and is the person on our team who provides the youth and fresh ideas that keep us all on track. Jen’s eagerness to carry out the projects that she takes on usually guarantees success. She’s not afraid of new directions and seeks out knowledge on how best to proceed whether it is through writing conferences, mentors or research. She’s the fiction writer on our team. Her wonderful imagination and her ability to make characters and settings come to life for her readers will ensure that she will get noticed some day soon by the publishing world.

Besides being an excellent writer, Jen is the mother of two (Riley and Quinn) and the wife of Ryan Chambers, a teacher and coach at Mapleton High School.

Jen has written for numerous publications including the Register-Guard and The West Lane News. She is in the process of marketing her book, Learning Life, which is the story about two women’s struggles with traumatic brain injury and how daily chores affect their lives. “TBI” is a much too familiar subject for Jen, who has lived her story following a near-fatal car accident during her high school years at Crow High School.

She is a member of Willamette Writers Group and the Brain Injury Association of America. You can find examples of her work and links to magazines and brain-injury-related sites on her website at http://www.geocities.com/jenniferbyerschambers.

I am including for your enjoyment a sample of Jen’s writing entitled “The Price of Recovery” that was published in Volume 4 Issue 1, the October 2007 winter issue of Groundwaters.

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The Price of Recovery

Traumatic Brain Injury Support Group
6:00 Wednesday
All Welcome

The other people in the support group were easy to loathe on sight. The idea of meeting with a bunch of other freaks was not something that would make her feel better at his point. Tom, the therapist, would say that she was cutting herself off before she started, but he was full of shit anyway. He didn’t know what it was like.

“Hello?” A woman in a gray suit jacket and pencil skirt raised her hand, waved it around for attention. “Excuse me? Everybody? It’s time to get started.”

The people milling about the large meeting room slowly filed in to their seats. No one sat in the front; all the rows were wide in order to accommodate the various pieces of equipment that assisted the TBI survivors. SarahBeth didn’t bother to hide the disgust she felt at being in the same room with these people. Lip curled, she hobbled with her walker, much slower than she would have liked, never looking up from the cracked tile until she got to her own chair. For a relatively easy retreat, she selected one on the interior aisle near the back and maneuvered herself into the orange plastic bucket seat.

“All right,” the lady in charge was sweating profusely through the faint shadow of a moustache on her upper lip. “It’s time to get to know each other. Now, you don’t have to say your name if you don’t want to. If you aren’t comfortable, say ‘pass,’ okay?” In a businesslike manner, she pushed up the sleeves of her jacket until they were three-quarters length and checked the dial of a thin gold watch. “Just want to get started on time,” she looked at the group, eyes wide and reflected in chunky glasses ten years out of date. “Okay. I’m Melody Gates, and I’m a support group facilitator. My son died from a traumatic brain injury six years ago this fall.”

“Hi, Melody,” some of the more experienced support-groupers chorused. Oh, please, SarahBeth thought, like I need AA. I don’t even want to see these people, let alone identify with them. The chair was uncomfortable, and she could feel the stares of the people around the room settle on her like pins in a butterfly’s wings.

“Oh.” It took a minute to find the words, and her face burned with embarrassment. Would it always take this long? “S- SarahBeth,” she forced out at last, and ducked her head to hide the anger. God, she should have just said “Pass,” what an idiot. Since her head was down she didn’t have to look anyone in the eye, especially that kid in the special wheelchair, the one with a breathing tube. She was definitely not as bad as him. His mom held up a straw for him to drink from. Oh crap, they were still waiting. It felt like time spun thick in the air while she waited it out, but thank goodness Melody stepped in.

“Thank you, SarahBeth,” she said with a big smile, “I’m sure I read about you. Everyone, SarahBeth here’s the one who was trapped in a car for seven days. Remember? Up on the mountain there? Well, here you are. Nice to see you, SarahBeth.” It was hard to tell if Melody was sincere; her voice had a ring of admiration in it but her eyes were soft with pity.

There was no way she was going to talk to any of these people. The only stuff she could remember before she was trapped in the car was not good, so why talk about that? What was she supposed to say, in a group like this? Hi, I’m SarahBeth; my brain’s totally screwed up, nice to meet you? That is, if she could find a way to make the right words come out of her mouth. A few bits of black fingernail polish remained on her fingernails, and she concentrated on chipping them off to tune the group out.

The person to her left was finished speaking at long last. “You are supposed to have sympathy for people less fortunate than you,” a phrase her foster mother said like a mantra, floated through her mind. Well, foster mom wasn’t stuck here in the loony bin with a bunch of crazies.

“I’m Dr. Catalano. I’m a Brain Trauma Physician here at the hospital. I like to check out the support group when I can.” He waved his right hand to the crowd, gave a reassuring smile. “I brought a guest. This is Maggie McLeod. She was a patient of mine many years ago.”

The woman sitting next to him sat on the outside of the aisle, her back to the wall, watching the people in the room with a guarded look on her face. Her hair, halfway pulled up, was more brown than red. Fish-belly white skin showed as her sleeve rode up when she, too, raised her hand to wave.

“I’m Maggie.” A deep, in through the nose, out through the mouth breath escaped before she went on. “I used to live here too.”

It was said with some surprise, whether as to her being here, or as to her being lucky enough to get out, SarahBeth couldn’t tell. It was hideous having someone from the outside see her. Who did she think she was, coming in here all… normal? Misery overtook SarahBeth. Drawing her walker to her, she leaned her upper body on its support and felt the peculiar aloneness one can only experience when surrounded by people who ostensibly feel what you feel.

Who are we? … the Groundwaters Staff

Jim Burnett (aka Jimminy Cricket – yes, he knows that’s not the correct spelling for the other Jiminy!

Jim Burnett

I’ve known Jim all of my life – literally. He’s my brother. When he learned that I was becoming involved in a literary magazine, his interest was immediately piqued. Jim has always been the philosopher in the family. His thoughts and meditations run deep. He has always loved to delve into the whys and the why nots of life and has studied many religions and beliefs. In fact, he has long had his own ministry based on the faith of the Unity (not Unitarian) faith. He has performed marriages and led worships for many years.

Jim is the father of eight as well as grandfather and great-grandfather of many. He and his wife Jonni live in a 5th wheel RV which they have taken to many destinations around the U.S. the past few years since they both retired. Unfortunately, with gas prices being what they are currently, their wings have been somewhat clipped this year and they have stayed pretty close to their original home of Portland, Oregon. In addition, Jim’s oldest son, J.R., has been undergoing very traumatic treatment for throat cancer this year and it’s really the main reason he and Jonni have wanted to stay close by.

Jim loves the written word, as well as the spoken one. He reads voraciously and has long been a reviewer for a statewide writer’s association.

Life isn’t all mental gymnastics for him, though. He is a natural “Santa Claus” and he frequently allows his snow white beard and hair to grow out a bit as the holidays approach. He’s the real thing, not only in appearance, but his love for children and for the holiday season adds that unique sparkle to his eyes that cannot be replicated by those without “the gift.”

The Groundwaters staff is so privileged to have Jim as a member and contributor – even if it is a long-distance membership/relationship.

Jim hasn’t been able to provide an autobiographical sketch for the blog, so instead, I am including here a special story he wrote for the Winter 2008 “choice” issue. It will give you an idea of his writing style and a flavor of who “Jimminy Cricket” really is…

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Apricot Tree
By Jim Burnett

Before I lay this mortal by, I want to become an apricot tree. Many years ago, I bought a house with a large yard that included three trees. One was a nectarine tree, bearing wonderful fruit year after year; one was a white Dogwood tree which celebrated the coming of each spring with an abundance of blossoms. The other tree… well, it was my mystery tree. According to leaf and bark, it was obviously some kind of fruit, but no one knew what kind. It had been barren – blossom-less – for many years. Each year, I tended and pruned each tree, but the mystery tree continued to withhold its fruit. Then, one fall as I was pruning, I decided that I would replace the mystery tree the coming spring. To simplify its removal, I pruned its branches, then cut back its limbs so that none smaller than two inches in diameter remained. All winter, that stark skeleton-of-a-tree stood deathlike – its doom sealed by my decision and my cruel saw.

That spring, however, I wore my procrastinator’s mask, and as the weather warmed, the mystery tree began to put forth fresh green sprigs which soon became leaf-filled branches. Because of its seemingly renewed burst of energy, I granted it a stay of execution. Nobody had seen this tree bloom in several decades, but this year, it bloomed! And as the weeks passed, blooms became fruit. My tree was no longer a mystery. There, alongside the nectarine tree, was an apricot tree bearing round, robust fruit – not many, but nevertheless, real apricots. Oh! and what apricots they were! Several decades before, I had plucked and devoured sweet, ripe golf ball-sized apricots from my Grandmother Zander’s tree in Southern California. The apricots in my backyard were twice the size of those, and as they ripened, they radiated an inviting, irresistible golden glow. The tree produced only a couple of dozen of its golden fruit and I think I ate every one, directly from tree to mouth. To say that tree’s fruit was good, is a gross understatement; I had never eaten – before or since – such luscious fruit!

Then, almost as quickly as its last precious fruit was plucked, the tree died. Before any leaf had fallen from the other trees, it had given up its fruit, its leaves and its life-energy. I thought at the time, “What a way to go!”

A couple of weeks later, as the last bits of the tree were reduced to glowing embers and wispy smoke curling up into the sky, I said to myself, “That’s the way I want to go – just like the apricot tree! I want my last efforts on Planet Earth to be spent bearing fruit of such quality that I will be fondly remembered by those who knew me.

Who are we? … the Groundwaters Staff

Sonny Hays-Eberts, Photographer/Contributor

Sonny Hays-Eberts at Groundwaters party 2007

Sonny Hays-Eberts is the husband of Judy, who founded Groundwaters magazine. Sonny is a database administrator at Oregon State University, but is also a talented photography hobbyist. He has taken many of the pictures featured in Groundwaters as well as designed many of the graphic images used in advertising and features. Sonny has created and designed the Groundwaters website at http://www.groundwaters.org and oversees its growth.

Sonny is best known for his Groundwaters series of articles called “Moments of Valor” in which he profiles the experiences of local military veterans. The respect he has for them is obvious to his readers.

Sonny wrote a biographical sketch about his brother and himself for the January 2008, Volume 4 Issue 3 “Choice” issue. The following piece will tell you a little bit about Sonny and is an excellent example of his writing skills.

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A Matter of Choice
By Sonny Hays-Eberts

Choice. Rarely does such a simple word impact our lives so dramatically. Some choices alter our lives forever. The results of these choices, such as decision to act violently, pursue an unwise business decision or to choose unhealthy or illegal activities can have lifelong consequences.

Some choices segregate us from others. In the realm of politics, religion or sex, the difference in our choices can range from vocally passionate to violent confrontation.

Sadly, I feel, we as a people look at the choices we and others make and use those to distance ourselves from others. We consider only the result of a choice and not the experiences we all share which help mold our own individual choices.

Consider two mythical people who grow up poor and often hungry. As a result of her experience, one person is determined to never be poor or hungry again, and to ensure the same for her family by ensuring fiscal stability for all. Her focus may be on employment opportunities or stock performance. A second individual might use that same experience and yet make choices leading to his efforts to ensure community or global hunger is eradicated. It is likely these people will consider themselves to be at odds philosophically and perhaps find it difficult to understand each other’s choices when they focus on the results of the choice.

For a more concrete and less politically-charged example of how shared experience can shape our choices, I will take a detailed look at the hobbies my brother and I chose to pursue. On the surface, his decision to collect glass and pottery and mine to collect militaria do not seem to share much beyond the aspect of collecting. His collection is fragile, colorful and based on art and the beauty of creation. My collection is musty and, other than some colorful ribbons, drab. It speaks of valor, blood and even destruction.

But, when one considers the experience we had growing up as military brats – having to often leave possessions behind to make weight, exposure to historical people and places and living overseas and feeling separate from American culture, it makes sense we would be drawn to collecting.

Every two or three years, our family would move to a new home. Often this was overseas, and the Air Force would only pay to ship a certain amount of weight. The cost of shipping any additional weight was prohibitively expensive. This was not a large amount, usually just enough to cover important items like clothes and some household items. We oftentimes discarded games, comics and all the little things important to a growing boy. I think this experience we shared helped create an attitude that cultivated a desire to keep things, and by extension, collect things.

We also lived in many places; New Mexico, New York, Japan, Canada, Germany, Holland, Virginia, Mississippi, New Hampshire and other locations. These locations exposed us to a vast sense of history and I think may be why our collections are composed of older items that share a link to history. My brother knows the lineage of his various pots and each artist. He knows that some of his Scheier pots were owned by the youngest scientist in the Manhattan project in Los Alamos. He knows which potters studied under others, where the studios were and what the timeline of glazing styles are. He knows the founder of La Luz pottery (his first collection), R. Hazard, who was also the founder of Alcoholics Anonymous. I know the lineage of various Army units and what campaigns they were involved in and what insignia was in use at what period.

By the time I was 20 and my brother 18, we had lived overseas for 11 years. Our collections are focused on American culture. He focuses on pottery created in La Luz New Mexico, and also the American Pottery movement of the 40s and 50s. I have some militaria from other nations, but the bulk of my collection is from the U.S. armed forces.

Often it seems our choices serve to separate us from others. The debates of political, religious and sexual choices are often incendiary and divisive. The phrase ‘pro-choice’ itself is the basis for contentious struggle.

But what can appear to be widely varying decisions made by different people may be found to be different interpretations of a shared experience. It is my hope that by understanding why people make choices, we can more easily identify with them instead of distancing ourselves from those who make choices different from our own.

Who are we? … the Groundwaters Staff

Pat Broome, Editor/Contributor

Pat Broome was the first of the current staff members to contribute a story to Groundwaters. It appeared in the very first issue and was titled “Revolt in a Nunnery.” I am including the autobiographical sketch that she wrote for our “Choice” issue, Volume 4 Issue 3 printed in January 2008. This will give you a little bit of background on Pat herself and the “flavor” of her considerable writing talent.

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Roads Taken: A Personal Journey
By Patrice Broome

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler…Robert Frost

Every spring there occurs in the United States a rite of passage known as high school graduation. It is the end of one journey and the beginning of another. The students are happy to be finished with high school, but they are also anxious about what they will do next. What path in life will they follow? Will they go to Community College, Technical School, University? Will they go to work? Will they get married and begin a family? Will they volunteer for AmeriCorps or a church mission? Will they go into the military? Some of them may already have their plans prepared but not all.

I know what they are going through because it was 35 years ago this May that I began my own journey on this path. The path is different for everyone. Sometimes it is straight, well-marked and clear. Often it is a meandering one that wanders here and there. Sometimes the path branches off in one direction, stays straight for a while, then branches off into a completely different path altogether. I started out on one path 35 years ago with just a sketchy outline of where I was going and did not really know where I would be at this time in my life. Not many people can predict the future when they are 17.

The theme of this issue is “choice.” Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken” has always resonated with me even though I am not one for reading poetry. I started to think about chosen paths and how the path or paths that each one of us chooses is not without consequences, positive or negative. With this in mind I am sharing my story with you and some of the paths that I have traveled down to be where I am today.

I graduated from a small public high school in a rural, conservative town in South Texas. My graduating class had 48 people, 30 girls and 18 boys. There were fewer options available to us than there are today, especially for the girls. Most of my classmates were going straight to work; either on a family farm or ranch or in the city of San Antonio, which was 30 miles to the north. Some of the girls were going to get married and some of the boys were going into the military. Only about 4 were going to college.

I wanted to go to college very much, but my family could not afford it. So I decided to do something completely different. I enlisted in the Army because it still offered the GI Bill of Rights that paid for a complete college education after the end of enlistment. This was something of a shock to my friends and people in the community, because while it was acceptable for males to enlist in the military it was not so for females. Women who did such a thing had something wrong with them. However, I wanted that college education and if that was the only way to get it, then that was what I was going to do.

Because I was only 17 when I graduated from high school, I had to wait until December when I turned 18. Those were the rules then; female enlistees had to be 18. I took several tests to find out what areas I would do well in. I was interested in photography, but I did well on the language test. I decided to study Russian because it was in demand and I would almost certainly be stationed in Germany, where I could learn German as an added bonus. I also had a more personal motive. My grandmother’s family came from Germany and she grew up speaking it at home. After she married my grandfather she did not use it again and had forgotten most of it.

My journey along that road began the following January when I was sent to Ft. McClellan, Alabama for basic training. It was not easy learning to live in a large room with 39 other women of varying ages and backgrounds. The noise and lack of privacy took some adjustment. I had to learn how to do things that were totally foreign to me, like marching in formation and going out for a week on field training. No camper, I! The highlight was when we had to go through the gas chamber to make sure we knew how to get our gas masks on in case of emergency. Because you weren’t allowed to have your glasses on, I think I almost ran into a tree after exiting the chamber. I felt something brush against the side of my head but I’m still not sure what it was since my eyes were burning and had tears flooding out from breathing a snoot full of teargas.

Afterwards, I was sent to one of the most beautiful places in the United States for language school. The school was located at the top of a high hill in Monterey, California and if you wanted to go anywhere off post the only way was down. I spent the next 9 months there studying Russian for 6 hours a day 5 days a week. It was very intense. On warm nights after a long day of class and homework, I would sleep with my window open and when the wind blew the right way, I would fall asleep to the sounds of the sea lions barking on the rocks off Cannery Row and Fisherman’s Wharf.

I met my husband Dennis there. He was studying German and we spent our time off exploring Cannery Row and Fisherman’s Wharf and Carmel.

The following spring, I got my orders for Germany where I was assigned to a base in Augsburg, which is located about 40 miles northwest of Munich. The country was beautiful and I spent as much time as I could traveling around the area and observing the people. After Dennis joined me, we found an apartment in a local neighborhood and did our best to blend in. We bought a small car and went driving some of the back roads and spending time in smaller towns and villages. We enjoyed going down to the local market on Saturday and seeing the vendors, mainly elderly women, with their fresh flowers, fruit and vegetables. Some of them were real characters. They would be chatting with each other and I sometimes saw Dennis’ face turn red. Since my knowledge of German was somewhat limited at that time, I asked him what they had said and he told me it was none of my business. I figured out that it was probably something quite naughty.

I finished my enlistment in Germany and we stayed there a total of almost 6 years. I started classes with the University of Maryland and we traveled widely through Western Europe. Holland was probably our favorite place to go. I even got the chance to go to Russia when it was still the Soviet Union. Walking down some of the streets in Moscow in the cold and snow was definitely an experience. It was somewhat creepy because it felt like being under surveillance. I saw people standing in a long line outside a shoe store because they heard that a shipment of new shoes had arrived. One of my most interesting memories of Russia was when we were in Leningrad/St. Petersburg and we saw dump trucks piled high with snow passing us on the street as we were going to the Hermitage Art Museum. I was wondering where they were taking it when I got my answer a few blocks later. A truck backed up on the bank of the Neva River and proceeded to dump the entire load into the frigid waters. I had never seen snow removal like that before.

Dennis and I eventually returned to the United States and had to decide where we were going to live and what we were going to do. We chose to move to San Antonio, Texas because that was where my family lived and I thought I would go to school and get my Secondary Teacher Certification. Dennis went to work as a police officer at the University of Texas Health Science Center and joined an Army Reserve unit.

Our path then followed that of many of our contemporaries; we bought a house and had a child. I quickly realized that trying to teach history to high school students was not going to work because I found myself being more enforcer than instructor. I stayed at home with my son for a while before deciding to go to graduate school at the University of Texas in Austin and study Library Science. I had worked in a library in Germany and really liked the job.

Because of his work schedule, my husband remained behind in San Antonio while Jonathan and I moved into student housing in Austin about 90 miles away. We stayed there a little more than a year before a health problem forced me to return to San Antonio and I was unable to finish.

I wasn’t finished with libraries altogether. I found a job as a Library Technician/Cataloger at Our Lady of the Lake University in San Antonio where I stayed for 5 years. As part of my job, I also supervised a small team of college students in processing library materials to get them ready for shelving. They were a great group of young people and many of them were the first members of their families who had ever been to college.

Several were from small towns in the Rio Grande Valley and along the border with Mexico. I learned a lot from them about what life was like there. The Valley is like being in a foreign country and La Frontera, as it is called, was fairly open then.

After a few years I decided to return to graduate school, this time at the University of Texas at San Antonio – a distance of approximately 10 miles from my house. What was I going to study? I chose to follow my first love; which was History. A few months later I also accepted another position as a Library Assistant/Government Documents Specialist at Palo Alto College, a local community college.

The next few years I was working full time and attending Graduate School in the evenings. It wasn’t easy, but I was happy doing it. I enjoyed the intellectual stimulus of both my job and my classes. Finally, I finished the program and received my Masters degree.

Dennis and I had decided some time before to move out West. My family in Texas had all gone and his parents lived in Northern California, but they were getting older and his mother’s health was not good. We chose to move to Oregon because it was close enough to them where we could visit more often. We had visited Oregon on an earlier trip to visit his family and liked the area. We chose this particular area because it reminded us a lot of Germany, a place we had enjoyed very much.

Little did we realize at the time, that this road was definitely going to have a few bumps in it! Just after we moved up here, the bottom fell out of the economy and it was extremely difficult for me to find a job. I decided to volunteer at the Fern Ridge Library because I have always felt at home in libraries and it would probably help when I applied for library positions. Eventually I found a job working with books (of course). I still volunteer at the library, mainly at the Quarterly Book Sale now and more recently as a member of the Library Board.

I also do some writing for Groundwaters and belong to a Writers’ Group called the Misfits and Mavericks Literary Circle. The name of the group is a good description of me. I have always been something of a misfit and most definitely a maverick. After all, there is a prominent family from San Antonio named Maverick, who live up to their name, and while not related by blood, I feel related in spirit.

The journey that I began 35 years ago in a small town in South Texas has taken me down many paths to many places. I have met many different types of people and lived in different parts of our country and the world. There are some common themes in the various roads that I have traveled on my journey. My love of history, travel, and curiosity about other times and places, and my love of reading and writing are just a few. I don’t know where the road I am on now will take me. I guess I’ll find out when I get there. That’s just part of the adventure.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Who are we? … the Groundwaters Staff

Pat Edwards (aka Patricia Ann Edwards)

Pat and Jim Edwards

Who are we?… the people behind Groundwaters? I’m going to begin featuring writings that will tell you a bit about the personas of the volunteers who bring you Groundwaters each quarter. I’ve introduced you to Judy Hays-Eberts already. I guess I should introduce myself this week through the article that I wrote for our “Reflections” issue in January 2008. It will tell you a bit about who I am and what you can expect from me and my writings.

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Reflections
By Pat Edwards

I recently waved as my 65th birthday passed me by. Oh, I am aware of the years that have piled up, one on top of the other, but it is so amazing to realize that their numbers say to the world that I am truly getting old. I don’t feel “old” as I always imagined that “old” would feel. I do feel my body wearing down some. I no longer can pick up those bales of hay out of the field each summer, and the aches and pains remind me that my bones and joints have supported my body for a really long time. Even though I’ve slowed a bit from my youthful vigor, I still feel vital and alive, despite what the accumulation of years tell me. The realization of age, I think, tends to send each of us back into our past, to reflect upon and evaluate our lives – it’s a way of validating our existence. I am no different.

I think back to my childhood. My father was somewhat of a nomad. After living in one place for two years or so, we moved on to another. My brother, sister and I experienced new places and new adventures and lifestyles, but were seldom in one place long enough to cement long-term friendships. I was shy and kept to myself a lot, although I had my share of playmates. My daydreams always seemed to be centered around horses. I loved going to the library and I read every horse story I could find. As a teenager, I loved to write letters to penpals and to the friends I had left behind. Words became fascinating to me and I was told that I wrote well. Like many girls of my era, especially, I tried writing stories but, inevitably, my imagination stalled and I never got very far with them. I’ve always envied the authors who write fiction, but I never could.

I spent my high school years living my dream of having a horse of my own. Several summers of picking strawberries and beans, hoeing weeds in the same crops and row-bossing allowed me to buy Rocket, my best friend and constant companion in those years. My sister, my friends and I spent long weekends and summer days astride our horses, riding bareback, many times running full out along our familiar trails. I have had horses ever since.

During the one wonderful year that I attended Linfield College, following high school graduation, I loved the writing assignments and I discovered a real fondness for my music and art appreciation classes, as well. World history, math and science were my stumbling blocks. But, I made friends who helped me learn to have fun and explore my self-worth. The funds for my college education ran out after that first year, but I have never regretted the experience of attending college even for that short time.

Following college, I worked in a finance office for several years as a secretary. It was a difficult period in my life. My parents were divorcing, and I was trying to make my way through a world of dating with little knowledge of what was expected of me. I was still timid and naive and totally unversed in the realities of what “real life” presented. I had a baby out of wedlock and gave her up for adoption. It was a period in my life that I once tried to forget, but despite its harshness, it too helped forge the person who I eventually became.

As I entered my years as a young wife and mother, there was little time to do much with my love for writing. My husband Jim and I bought our first home on 30 acres between Lorane and Crow, Oregon. It was there that we put down our roots and raised our four children. While the kids were preschoolers, I was too busy changing diapers, nursing runny noses and doing the chores on our small farm to take much notice of what was happening around us. I only made one trip to town per week in those days – to do my grocery shopping and to take the kids to lunch. Once the kids were in school, I began looking around at life in my community. I immediately began involving myself in my childrens’ school and their activities. I look back at that time as if I were a flower bud, slowly opening to the world.

When our oldest daughter was old enough, I volunteered to establish a 4-H livestock club in Lorane that she could participate in. A neighbor/rancher was willing to lead the club if I was willing to organize it. I loved doing it so much that I soon volunteered to be the Lorane 4-H coordinator, setting up all types of new clubs for the Lorane area youth. I soon realized that I needed a way to get the word out about what the established clubs were doing and which ones were being formed. I began my first local newsletter called Pat’s People which I manually typed and mimeographed on the school’s old purple-ink machine. I distributed them at the local stores. I was soon shooting off letters to the editor about local issues that concerned me, as well. Once again, I was using my writing skills for not only others, but for myself, as well.

When our oldest offspring were entering high school, the Mitchell family decided to sell their store in Lorane. Jim had managed Mayfair Markets in the area for years and had always wanted his own business; but, the little Mitchell Store was not making enough to sustain a family of six. So, after we purchased it in December 1977, it became my new job. I loved working within its crowded dusty confines with the creaky wooden floor that slanted ever so slightly towards the back where the timbers were beginning to sag. I loved greeting the people who came in to buy a bottle of pop and a candy bar and to stand and chat about their lives. The loggers with their cork boots were confident that I would not scold them for walking on my very un-pristine floors, leaving bits of mud and dirt in their tracks. Every time I swept, the dust would always settle back on the merchandise even though we oiled the floors several times a year.

Two friends, Nancy O’Hearn and Marna Hing, helped me run the store during those eight years when it was in my charge. Like so many others, we all became interested in our own family histories when the television series “Roots” awakened the world to genealogy. We began extensive research into our own families and from that work our interest in our community’s history evolved. We knew, from Nancy’s own family history, that Lorane would be celebrating its 100th birthday within a few years. They asked me if I would be willing to write a book on its history – if they would help me research it. It seemed the right time and the right thing to do, and we pursued our goal for over three years. I bought my first computer and taught myself how to use it so that I could record all of our research in an organized manner. We finally published Sawdust and Cider; A History of Lorane, Oregon and the Siuslaw Valley in 1987 in conjunction with the Lorane Centennial Celebration.

When Jim took over the running and modernizing of the store full time, I searched for a full time job in town despite the fact that I had not worked at a regular office job for over 20 years. I took my computer experience to a temp agency which immediately put me to work. I was soon offered a permanent position at the Institute of Neuroscience at the University of Oregon where I used my computer skills extensively for 15 years. I gained respect and knowledge in my position there and retired with a confidence that my skills would allow me to succeed wherever life took me.

While working at the University, I began publishing another newsletter called the Lorane Historian. It profiled local people and businesses and I wrote about Lorane history that had come to light since 1987. The Historian was alive and well for three years until my lack of time and energy brought it to a halt. Since my retirement, I spent a year completely updating and revising Sawdust and Cider, incorporating some of the history from the newsletter and profiling the current businesses and people in Lorane. I published the new and much larger edition called From Sawdust and Cider to Wine in September 2006.

I’m now becoming more and more involved in the publication of Groundwaters, thanks to the confidence that Judy, Sonny, Jen and Pat have shown in me. They have welcomed me to their literary family and I am learning so much from them. I’ve discovered that no matter how much we learn and how long we have lived our lives, there is always room for more experiences and adventures. I have also learned that every experience, good or bad, in our past goes towards shaping the person we eventually become. Each of us leaves behind our own legacy. I am comfortable with the legacy that I will leave behind for my children, descendants and community because it is a part of who I have become through all of my own experiences.

So, despite the years that say we are old, as long as we have an interest in life and an eagerness to learn, how can any of us truly become “old” in anything but years?

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I am now the Managing Editor of Groundwaters. Judy has handed over the reins to me. I only hope that I can do justice to the confidence that she has placed in me.

Here are my writing credentials:

Publications of Patricia Ann Edwards

Edwards, P., (1974-1977) Pat’s People, 4-H Community Newsletter.

Edwards, P., (1986) BooBoo and Keno, A Children’s Book, 34 pgs.

Edwards, P.A.., N.S. O’Hearn, and M.L. Hing (1987) Sawdust & Cider; A History of Lorane, Oregon and the Siuslaw Valley, Bend, Oregon: Maverick Publications, 165 pgs.

Edwards, P. (1993-1997) The Lorane Historian, Community newsletter profiling local residents, businesses, and history of Lorane, Oregon.

Edwards, P.A. (1994) “Searching for Community Roots: A Novice’s Approach to Writing an Area History,” Everton’s Genealogical Helper, May/June 1994 issue, p. 12-13.

Edwards, P.A. (1995) “Searching for Community Roots: A Novice’s Approach to Writing an Area History,” Housewife-Writer’s Forum, Jan/Feb 1995 issue, 8(1):7-9.

Edwards, P.A. (1995) The Life of Ruth Kinsman, A book of memories published in honor of her mother’s 80th birthday, September 28, 1995, 179 pgs.

Edwards, P. (1999) Zebrafish Web Site Listings. Meth. Cell Biol. 60:373-385.

Edwards, P.A. (2006) From Sawdust and Cider to Wine; A History of Lorane, Oregon and the Siuslaw Valley, Bend, Oregon; Maverick Publications, 256 pgs.

Edwards, P. (2007) Writings and Poems of Elizabeth Tyler Brown (a compilation for the Brown family), self-published, 100 pgs.

Edwards, P. (2007) A Christmas Letter Diary, A compilation of 22 years of Christmas letters and pictures from those years; self-published, 159 pgs.