I wrote this poem of my Mother when she passed away. She was about as authentic a woman as could be found. She left the South, but the South never left her. I learned the most important things in life from her example. She bore nine children,put up with an aggravating husband and still had a sense of humor. The poem is called HER.

HER
Her face is lined.
But pay that no mind.
Her once raven tresses,
Now match the gray of her dresses.

Her gestures reveal so well . . .
Narrowed eyes mean a bargain to sell.
Her favorite expression I am told:
“Why that’s a hundred years old.”
A wave of the arm means alarm.
And, all the while she speaks, somewhere you know there was a farm.

Not a line of Chaucer can she recite, but think ye not she isn’t bright.
None but she could have bought houses totaling four,
When her only job was behind the kitchen door.

Solid and stalwart.
I’ve never seen her cry,
Or loudly exclaim or hardly blame.
Only sigh. But listen well and you’ll a story to retell.

Never has one since HE been so compassionate and so kind.
Another I’m convinced would be hard to find.
Her home, her kitchen, her soul,
Are open to all without any toll.

First, a Mr. Hack B. with his family came.
Then others for whom I cannot remember names.
Along the way, a young boy named Langlin found a home.
Others came, uninvited, but welcome, all ceasing to roam.
Lowell Abbott, Slim, Bill Polk, Crit, Charlie to name a few.
All with stories anew.
Even her daughters and daughters’ daughters too.

She fed, she cared and sometimes clothed.
Some paid, others promised, all stayed.
Until out of iron they were sure she was made.
Her will, her constitution, her mind,
Gave little hint her children numbered nine.

Of her much can be said.
How practically all alone this way she has tread.
How she laughs. How a story she retells.
How in her spelling she excelled.
A-u-s-t-r-i, Austria; K-o-m-b, comb; to mention a few.
And they are not new. (writer’s comment-these spellings are really a family ‘joke.’)

Her life would fill a book.
To be read in some cozy nook.
But with it she isn’t through.
And to life she will be true.
Until for her it begins all anew.

Her face is lined.
But pay that no mind.
Her once raven tresses,
Now match the gray of her dresses.
--Written Dec 25, 1968

In the meantime, I wish you enough.
Jude Urbanski

I met Katherine Hoeger Flotz last week at a writer's meeting. I've just finished her memoir called A Pebble in my Shoe and I don't think I'll ever forget her story. I pray I don't forget.

Katherine, in the sunset of her life, recreates for her children and grandchildren in this well-written book, the story of her family's concentration camp experience in her country of Yugoslavia during the post WWII era.

The book brings to light a little known story of the plight of indigenous Germans of Yugoslavia. Katherine's family, though incarcerated in their home town of Gokowa were nonetheless in a concentration camp. She crafts her story well and memorably.

Their trials brought tears as did my visit a year ago to Breendonck, a Nazi concentration in Belgium. I shall never understand the cruelty of humans to one another. It's also hard to understand the strength shown by Katherine and her people too. It's a strength I admire and am glad to have as part of our country's heritage. My own German ancestors arrived just in time to serve in the Revolutionary War and Katherine's arrived in time to serve in the Korean War.

You may buy this excellent book on Amazon or contact Katherine at KFoltz@comcast.net.

Meanwhile, I wish you enough.
Jude

Easter is my most favorite holiday or celebration.

I've wondered what life would be like without the Resurrection? I don't chose to dwell on that. I just continue to be amazed that God could love us so much. So much that His Son, a part of Himself, chose to come down so that we might be able to have eternal life with Him.

No wonder we call Him Savior.

We are an Easter people and I do wish you enough as you celebrate with all our wonderful traditions of the day.

Jude

Mary DeMuth is one of my fovorite authors. Her works deal with life that is more real than one wants. But there's no lasting dispair when the Spirit moves in the story. The plot only thickens.

Mary DeMuth’s latest book, Daisy Chain, takes you inside the skin of fourteen-year-old Jed Pepper, whose regret, grief and guilt over the disappearance of his friend Daisy gnaws at him like a cancer. He knows the fault is his.
Daisy Chain, the first book in the Defiance Texas Trilogy, is filled with a host of memorable characters. You’ll meet Hixon, Bald Muriel, Miss Emory and Hap, to name just a few. They become friends you care about as their emotions both exhilarate and refresh yet exhaust. Their struggles show humanity at its best and its worst.
Harsh and dark family secrets become the conduit through which God shows love and redemption. Jed wrestles with confusion faith sometimes brings.
This is another wonderful DeMuth story of turning trial to triumph, but your heart wishes it’d happen sooner than later for young Jed. The book is unquestionably a page turner as you seek to find what happened to Daisy and it levels high anticipation for the next book in the series.

Be sure to buy and read the book. I promise you'll like it. Visit Mary at her web site a www.marydemuth.com.

Meanwhile, I wish you enough.
Jude

How Do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breath and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace,

I love thee to the level of everyday's

Most quiet need, by sun and candle light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears of all my life!- and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

 

happy valentine's day a day late!

Jude