No Time For Hate

by Jena Galifany

Hate is an emotion I'd rather not think about. The negativity can destroy lives. I have better things to do with my life than think about hating someone or something. Even in my writing, I've not focused on the hate emotion. It is there but I don't focus on it.

In ShadowsForge 1: Three Times a Hero, Alexis is running from her abusive boy friend. She's scared and trying to be brave about her situation but focuses on the new man in her life, Ty Synclair.

In ShadowsForge 2: Trials on Tour, there is a hater. He wants the band dead because his woman was with one of the band members. I focused more on his inability to fulfill his purpose.

In ShadowsForge 3: Retaking America, there is a conflict between two of the band members over an obvious issue: a woman. I focused on the competition.

In ShadowsForge 4: The Long Way Home, we find out about Brian's history and conflict in his teen years due to hate. The story shows how much a bad history can make a mess of a current situation.

Shyanne's Secret has a case of hate that costs a man his life, so to speak. (I don't want to spoil the story). Most of the story is about the recovery of the girl who lost her mind due to her father's hate.

Okay, so I guess I have spend some time with the hate factor. But, how can we know the joy of love without knowing the pain of hate? It is relative. (Thank you, Mr. Einstein.)

I must confess, I hate inactivity. I hate writer's block. I hate waiting for something to get done and usually jump in and do it myself, just so it is finished. I hate a lack of writing time when I have a new story knocking around in my brain. I also hate the fact that I let my group down by forgetting to post last month. =(  Sorry!

I feel better now. I can go on and live my life without hate...unless it needs to rear its ugly head in a new novel. I guess that would be alright.

For more information and excerpts from the ShadowsForge Series and Shyanne's Secret, stop by Whiskey Creek Press and read the first chapter of each book for free.

Hope your Valentine's Day was wonderful. I know mine was.

Cheers,
Jena

I'M A CARD CARRYING INDIAN by Brenda Whiteside

My Grandmother Anthie, with my uncle and a friend.

I'm a card carrying Choctaw Indian. Thank you, Great Grandma and Grandpa Franklin! 

In 1893, the American government formed the Dawes Commission to come up with a way to exchange Indian tribal lands in the southeastern United States for new land allotments to individuals in Oklahoma. The commission addressed the five civilized tribes, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Cherokee, Creek and Seminole. What is known as the Dawes Rolls registered Indians for approximately eight years. More than 250,000 individuals applied for the allotments but in the end a little more than 100,000 were approved.

Part of me thinks this might not have been the best deal for my ancestors. Relocation from tribal land evokes a sadness. In fact, not all of the Indians bought into the deal. Some tried to disappear within their lands and some were forced to enroll and move. The title of "civilized tribes" in itself indicates a people who had finally been worn down after years of oppression by the white men who came to America.

My sister, my son and me - card carrying Indians

But I have no knowledge that the registration and relocation caused my great grandparents or their daughter, my grandmother Anthie Lois Franklin, any hardships. What it does for me today is priceless.

A few years ago, in Minnesota, my husband and I both lost our jobs. He chose to retire and luckily has the Veteran's Administration for excellent medical care. My great grandparents registered as Mississippi Choctaw. I am in fact both Choctaw and Chickasaw but they had to pick one tribe to register under. My card states I am 1/64 Choctaw. In Arizona, that card allows me to seek medical care at the Indian Medical Center in Phoenix. It isn't medical insurance. I can't get reimbursed if I have to seek medical care elsewhere. But I'm lucky that I can receive medical care in Arizona.

I'm sad I never met these grandparents. My great grandparents died long before I was born and Grandmother Anthie died when my mother was three years old. Although I never knew them, they left me a gift and a proud history.

Visit Brenda at www.brendawhiteside.com.

Or on FaceBook: www.facebook.com/BrendaWhitesideAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/brendawhitesid2

She blogs on the 9^th and 24^th of every month at http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com

She blogs about prairie life and writing at http://brendawhiteside.blogspot.com/

I'm Irish. And German, Choctaw, Chickasaw...

I'm Irish. And German, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Cherokee and a little French. When I think of my heritage, different words come to mind for each ethnic group because of personal experiences.

My father's mother was German - short, round and a little fierce. My husband and I spent three years in Germany when he was in the Army. I was often mistaken for Deutsch so I guess I inherited more German physical characteristics than any of the others. The words and images I associate with Deutschland are rich culture, comfort food and castles. That fierce part of my grandmother gives me an impression of a clan mentality. Granny thought anyone in our family could do no wrong, but she sort of stuck her nose up at everyone else.

My mother's mother was American Indian - Choctaw, Chickasaw and Cherokee. I didn't know her. She died when my mother was three. What I know of her comes from a couple of faded pictures. One letter she wrote survived her. It was rather sad. Words and images I associate with my American Indian blood are not so easily stated. Maybe proud, beautiful, ceremonial and a sadness that comes from trusting that ended in disappointment.

I'm not sure who was French exactly, but my father's side is responsible for this heritage. I've been through the south of France and on another trip spent a few nights in Nice. Without any family firsthand connection, I can't say I have any real associations. The small amount of time spent in country gives me only superficial images - wealthy, sweet and the best latte I've ever had.

And last but certainly not least - Irish! It is Irish American month. My mother's father, Grandpa, was a full-blooded, redheaded Irishman. He died the day I brought my son home from the hospital. My few memories of him are vivid. He didn't live near us so I didn't get to spend a lot of time with him. But those few times were rousing. His love of drink was stereo-typical, as was his storytelling and colorful language. He made me laugh and for a young girl, he was tons of fun. At one time, I owned some Bosons, and the one named Jock always looked just like Grandpa to me. Jock is Scottish but you get the picture. My words for Irish are fun, colorful, cheerful and green.

Using my heritage and my strongest impressions, my book Honey On White Bread is about Claire Flanagan whose father is Irish and her mother is Choctaw.

When seventeen-year-old Claire Flanagan is wrenched from her father and deposited at the Good Shepherd’s Home for Wayward Girls, all dreams for Hollywood stardom are lost. But when twenty-year-old Benjamin Russell helps secure her release, she starts to believe in a happy future with him…until she discovers his ex-girlfriend is pregnant.

In this post WWII coming of age novel, Claire discovers the silver screen can’t compare with the fight she takes on for the leading role in her own life.

 

Honey On White Bread:

http://www.melange-books.com/authors/brendawhiteside/honey.html

http://tinyurl.com/7ccuqn6

http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-honeyonwhitebread-657446-173.html

Visit Brenda at www.brendawhiteside.com.

Or on FaceBook: www.facebook.com/BrendaWhitesideAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/brendawhitesid2

She blogs on the 9^th and 24^th of every month at http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com

She blogs about prairie life on her personal blog http://brendawhiteside.blogspot.com/

Dabbling In the Dark Side

By Andrea Boeshaar

October is the month the Roses of Prose are focusing on the spooky, scary, and the supernatural. Regarding the latter, I think one of the most frightening things I ever read can be found in a book, titled Crying Wind by Crying Wind (yes, that’s her name). It’s the true story of a Native American (Kickapoo) girl’s journey from darkness into light during the mid-1960s and early 1970s. 

In it, Crying Wind describes an unforgettable time when she was about ten years old. She wrote: 

"I knew that there must be dark, shadowy things, bad things that Grandmother and my uncles talked about when I was supposed to be asleep, but I didn’t know what they were. Even though I was curious, I wasn't sure I really wanted to know everything that went on around the reservation."

Crying Wind goes on to say that a man came to the door one night. He'd been newly wed, but his wife died of pneumonia. So he had gone to the medicine man on the reservation and was told he could raise his wife from the dead if he did the following: 1) Took off his clothes and slathered his body with mud; 2) Waited for the full moon to rise; 3) Went to his wife's grave and covered it with a coyote skin.


The man did this and reported that in the third hour of his waiting, the ground began to shake and something ugly and horrible rose from out of his wife's grave "so terrifying that his mind couldn't grasp it." He knew it wasn't the spirit of his late wife and sensed the spirit was despicably evil. The man went screaming off into the night, the evil spirit right on his heels. He went from house to house, seeking help, but found no escape.


The story continues:


“What’s happening, Shima Sani (Grandmother)?” I whispered as I watched the man disappear.

“He shouldn't have done that,” she said quietly and shut and bolted the door.

*     *     *

Conjuring up spirits? Frightening stuff!

But, all right, I'll admit it. I'm a big honkin' chicken. I can't enjoy Christian thrillers and suspense novels by such authors as Frank Peretti or  Brandilyn Collins without feeling the hairs on my neck stand up and my limbs go numb from fright. I, personally, don't enjoy being scared out of my mind.

But the plain truth is the spirit world is alive and very real. Native Americans especially, I think, are aware of this fact. Crying Wind’s journey ended with her conversion to Christianity and her desire became to share God’s plan of salvation with others. She is featured on Indian Life Ministries web page.Click here to find out more.

This month when store aisles are lined with ghosts and ghouls and enough candy to make my blood sugar soar to the stars, my big honkin' chicken heart can take comfort in the words of my Savior. Christ said, “Nevertheless do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice that your names are recorded in heaven.” (Luke 10:20 NASV) 


No, you won't find me, dabbling in the dark side.

What about you? Will October mark a harvest time or Halloween?