Breakfast:

1/2 cup fresh mixed berries

1/2 cup coconut milk

This is a wonderful way to eat fruit in the morning! Frozen berries that have been partially thawed are also good in this. I use raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries in mine. Just pour the coconut milk over the berries and enjoy as you would any cereal.

Lunch:

1 handful fresh baby spinach leaves

2 baby carrots

1/8 cup chopped onion

1/8 cup raisins

1/8 cup dried cranberries

2 strips cooked bacon

1 egg

4 grape seed tomatoes

Olive Oil

Lemon Juice

First, wash and pat dry the spinach. Set these in a bowl. Chop the carrots and bacon. Add to the spinach. Add onions, raisins, and cranberries. Chop the egg and add to the salad mixure. Toss lightly to mix all ingredients. Drizzle with olive oil and lemon juice.

Now for me, this meant a lot of thinking, researching, analyzing, and reformatting certain aspects of my life. I reached the conclusion that my cancer would not define who I was, what I could be, or any other part of my being. I also decided that I would become proactive in my care, including finding ways to improve my health through diet and exercise.

Before this diagnoses was pronounced, I didn’t pay much attention to what I ate. If I liked it, I ate it. I never spent any time considering how the food really gets used by my body. Now, I do. And, what I am discovering has shocked me.

Food is not all equal. Refined foods, homogenized foods, grains, and gluten are all harmful to the human body. Only those of Asian decent have the capacity to eat grains as they have longer intestinal tracts that assist in the digestion of this type of food. This was done through the evolution of their diets over centuries and remains with them today. (Now, before anyone gets their panties in a wad…I am speaking about cultivated grains, grains we plant in large crops, not natural grains that have been almost forgotten in our society due to their longer preparation times and their limited growing areas across the globe.)

Fats are necessary, but not all fats are equal. Good fats include pure butter, olive oil, coconut oil and flax seed oil. Animal fat is especially good, too..in particular fish fats. Pork is the exception to this as it is NOT good to eat. Pork is linked to an increase in cancer, and it is unsure if the fat from pigs is any better than the meat. Therefore, pork should be avoided. Remember all those carrots that help with eyesight? Well, if you want them to work, you must eat them with fat.

I also discovered that eating three meals a day is not the way to go. Food should be eaten when one is hungry, not when the clock announces a meal. The practice of meal times at specific times of day originated in the middle ages and represented wealth. You should eat when hungry and stop when satisfied, even if that means you eat 6 to 8 times a day instead of 3. It helps with proper digestion and with the absorption of necessary minerals and vitamins. In turn, it helps to control metabolism, which is the job of your thyroid gland.

If I had to redo raising a child, I would now refuse to give any formula containing soy to that child as an infant. Soy has been linked to precocious puberty in girls, causing early breast development. In boys, it has been linked to infertility problems and low sperm count. Soy causes a reaction that spawns a production of estrogen in the infant that is 15-100 times greater than the natural spike of hormones that infants normally produce as a preparation for later development during puberty.

So what does this all mean? It means that we need to rethink our diets and our so called progressive nature in our food industry and return to what our bodies were designed to eat. It means eating real food and not processed food. It means acknowledging that we have made a mistake in our quest for better methods of food cultivation.

Therefore, starting with the next post, I will begin sharing my recipes and research that I have come across in an effort to help others who may be suffering from illnesses that might be impacted positively through diet. I hope you enjoy the foods I have begun to realize are truly edible and reap the benefits of a more natural and healthful lifestyle. I know I am. Already, I have noticed differences. I have more energy, take less medication, and experience less pain. In fact, today was the first day that I can remember waking up with absolutely no pain and I have degenerative arthritis…a condition that has plagued me for years!
I will also chronicle my journey through my illness and let you know what happens along the way.

Yes, I know you’ve heard that before, bur I really have. Between attending school, running a publication business, and running a craft business, I have been over extended and a whirl of activity beyond what is normal for most. I have to say it that way as it has become normal for me. That said, let’s catch up:

Last semester, I started school. So far, I’m in my second semester and thoroughly enjoying myself. As my major is advertising, I am implementing everything I learn directly into Irish’s Story Playhouse, in particular, Irish’s Bows, Books & Beads. I’ve moved off of Etsy and completely onto my own site in order to have my products seen and for me to have time to really put a lot of effort into it instead of splitting my attention between two storefronts.

I’ve also moved to the realm of a paying market by offering authors payment for the very first time for The StoryTeller Tymes. In addition, we are going to print this month. The magazine will be released April 15th.

I am also the only one to worry about the house, the bills, and of course, the chores. My hubby does work, but he thinks his job ends there. He really believes that as soon as he’s handed me his check, he has no other duties in the house. My daughter, who is-in her defense-clueless at 16, cannot at the moment think beyond herself and what she needs at the moment in order to keep her life in balance. She’s gotten her first job, but forgets to help in the house. She says it’s a paycheck thing-as in I don’t give her one. I say it’s the reason she has seen a dramatic decline in her social activity as the only answer I can muster to all requests is currently “no”.  I’m sure I’ll remember how to say yes again once she remembers to do her chores…darn parental amnesia on these matters!

Basically, my days are spent in unequal parts (With the largest amount of time being listed first) of writing, crafting, studying, promoting, parenting, cooking, and cleaning. If you’re wondering why parenting didn’t make the first thing on the list, well, she is 16 and is often not home between her own school obligations and work. When she is home, I’m doing the homework help thing and other fun parental duties. To her, I spend too much time worrying about her as it is and she wishes I would butt out or drop dead, depending on what crisis I have caused her at the moment with the answer of “no” to some social event of the century. Of course, this event happens all the time as every event is labeled with this prestigious title in her world.

Hubby, poor soul, is lost. He wants to talk-he gets a mix of the subject at hand and notes from class. He wants a nice, quiet dinner-he gets a dinner filled listening to recorded lectures. He wants a clean house-he gets a house that has at least some semblance of decency. He wants clean laundry that is folded, ironed, or hung-he gets laundry that is washed and still in the buckets waiting to be folded.

Both are clueless to the fact that I am one person and need a little help. Their help. Since they aren’t inclined to figure this out themselves, I have decided to help them out a little.

This morning, I gave them each a list of things I will no longer be doing. Her room, his laundry. The dishes, his bathroom. Dusting, the trash. I also made sure they understood help would only be given in one office hour a day to guide them through their new found responsibilities-2 am to 3 am seven days a week. They both looked at me and exclaimed :”But I’m sleeping then!”. I answered, “I’m not.” I consistently am up until about four am and get up for the day by 8 am. I have no other time to devote to teaching them how to do chores, how to help out, how to do things that most people could do in their sleep and realize NEED to be done.

As I write, they are in the living room discussing the best way to manage their chores, what it means to their television time, how they will handle all this work instead of catnapping in the evenings…I think they can figure it out. If not, well, heaven help us all.

So, that’s what I’ve been up to…that’s my excuse, justifiable and delivered, for not having kept up with the blog as I should have. Now with the hour and a half I gained in unused multi-task activity time, I will attempt to write more often.

My family has survived the class, as well. In addition, they have also adjusted to me working full time again. My daughter has become a little more proficient in the kitchen. Although all foods are blackened to some degree, we are beginning to recognize what the food was intended to be when it appears on our plates. She’s also discovered that the bathroom will not eat her alive if she attempts to clean it. This is the biggest development as I used to do it for her.

My husband has adjusted to being put on hold-something I had never done to him before going back to work and school. He often calls with computer questions while I’m out doing audits and customer service checks for the marketing firms I represent. Usually, his timing is incredibly poor. However, putting him on hold has had some benefits. Sometimes, he is able to find the send button in his email drafts all by himself.
They are growing up, my husband and daughter. I am finding my wings and learning to live life on a different plane than I had before. Together, we are reaching new heights. It’s all good.

I’ll try to post the entry I’ve been working on for a while now concerning ideas for better educating your child or yourself soon. However, it is an entry that I want to mean something, to be more than just some rambling on my part. Education is important to me and I want to share my views on it in the most appropriate and sincere manner possible.

Until then, I hope everyone is having as good a year as I am so far.

This sounds simple enough. I’ve been to school before. College isn’t that scary, especially since one can now attend online. I also have very good memories of going the first time, when my daughter was very young and adored me above all others. Therefore, it seems logical that I expected her to be overjoyed, ecstatic, happy beyond words even.

Imagine my surprise when she blurted out, “But, Mom! You’re old!”

My shocked look of disbelief didn’t do anything to quench her moving mouth. I know I missed several points she tried to make until I heard, “If you insist on doing this, just don’t go to any college I may end up at. I don’t want to take classes with my mother!”

Thinking my husband would understand my fall from grace in my daughter’s eyes, I went to him for some encouragement. He responded, “Why would you want to do something like that?”

That’s when it hit me. The reality of my previous college experience. Time had tampered with it a little bit and had given it a rosy hue it didn’t deserve. You see, in my excitement at returning to school once more, I had overlooked the fact that my husband never cracked a book–not even the TV Guide. He had always joked (or I thought it was a joke) he’d wait for the movie to come out. Now, I know he can read. I’ve seen him do it on paperwork for his job and in the want ads when he was looking for said job. However, he will avoid it like the plague.

The last time I went to college, I juggled a full time job, a toddler, a husband, all the household chores and errands, and maintained a 4.0 GPA. I survived on strong coffee and minimal sleep. I ate as I was cooking so I could use their dinner time as a study hour. I recorded my lectures and book chapters so that I could listen to them as I showered, drove, cooked, and cleaned. I was the epitamy of the overloaded, exhausted student determined to beat the odds and prove straight A’s were not only possible, but rather the only acceptable measure of success.

After thinking a while, I decided to sit my family down. This time would be different. I would not be the only one to work in the house, at my job, and on my family. I didn’t have babies anymore. I had a teenager and a full grown man who at times acted like a child. They would help…or else.

At the meeting, I informed my daughter I would be attending what is fast becoming her first pick in schools, The Art Institute of Pittsburgh. I wouldn’t be moving the family or anything that drastic, I assured her. Instead, I had chosen to attend the online division.

My husband learned he’d have to discover the stove, refrigerator, and a mop bucket to clean the floors. He sat, silent, growing more pale by the second.

I didn’t know which one had suffered the most damage-my teenager who had nearly fainted at the mention of doing her own laundry or my husband who was now rocking in his chair and completely mute. I decided not to worry. Instead, I took their speechlessness as an agreement to the new rules of the household.

Over the next few days, I made charts to outline what they needed to do since I didn’t want any interruptions during my study time to ask where do we keep the dish soap? I briefed them and verbally explained everything I noticed them watching me do so they’d know how when it came time for my return to school.

Slowly, it began to work. My classes started and the bumps came. The path from my office to the charts hanging on the wall in the living room became barren of carpet from the number of trips they took. A few nights, I finished studying and looked up to discover my husband wondering around looking for where we kept the food. My daughter owns more tie-dye clothes than she once did. However, neither has been worse for the wear. I think it’s done them a world of good, not having me do everything for them.

Now, after two weeks of being in classes, I’m wondering why I didn’t do this earlier. My life is easier. I have less chores to do and we all have more family time as we learn to share the responsibilities of the house.

Perhaps there was more for me to learn than just the advertising degree I’m working on….

For those of you who just realized there is a rulebook for each child….no I can’t send you my copy. That is forbidden and punishable by a fate worse than death. The only way to get one is to ask your child. Unfortunately, most of them won’t hand it over. It gives us certain advantages. I got lucky. My daughter left it out one day in her room and I found it!

Besides, I need it. And, even with it, I make a multitude of mistakes–especially when I say no, refuse to do as told, and won’t do her chores for her.

But I digress. Back to the matter at hand. Numerology. By definition, Numerology is the study of particular numbers in the belief that these numbers have significance in the person’s life for which they are applied. These numbers can be a birth date, driver’s license, social security, or even a single number the person in question favors. Sounds safe enough…silly, too when you think about it as the numbers of significance change with each individual. This makes numerology rank as unreliable as astrology in being able to be scientifically proven methods of deciphering this thing we call life.

However, there are a few numerology theories that have become the basis for a strong believe in even nonbelievers-numbers that are associated with luck and the lack of it whether the reputation is deserved or not. Even the Bible implies that such numbers exist with the extensive references to the devil’s mark, commonly believed to be the number 666.

I’m going to take a look at the numbers: 7, 11, 13, and 23. I’ll also explain the loosely put together law of fives, which is supposed to be one of the theoretical laws that prove numerology’s case as a serious science. It makes for some interesting reading and some great material for thought. However, it does not provide proof as to the existence of the meanings of numbers in reality as we know it.

The number 7 is seen as a lucky number by most, but not by all. Here are some associations the number has enjoyed for your perusal. Keep in mind that since the number has both good and bad associations, the significance of the number becomes one of personal perspective and unreliable as undeniable proof of fate.

1. The number seven is associated with virginity.
2. In the Bible, the number seven is associated with two conflicting concepts: prosperity and punishment.
3. The number 7 is the sign of eternal life in Egyptian history
4. Purgatory has seven worlds

The number 11 is also said to be lucky by most cultural standards. However, it is also the number of rebellion and internal fighting. Here are a few of number eleven’s associations:

1. It is the number of prophecy.
2. It is the number of martyrdom.
3. It is considered the number of the knowledge of God
4. The Hebrews thought the number 11 was evil. No Hebrew name has eleven letters.
5. 11 is also the number which signifies transgression from law.

The number 13 has ambiguous meanings as well. Most see it as unlucky, but it has had its moments.

1. 13 is associated with suffering and death.
2. The original sin is believed to have been made on a Friday 13. Christ’s crucifixion is believed to have also occurred on a Friday 13.
3. The number 13 represents eternal love.
4. There were 13 in attendance at the last supper (12 disciples + Jesus).
5. The number 13 is the number of the Son of God.

The number 23, as the movie pointed out, does have meaning. Again, it is a number that is both a blessing and a curse based upon your perspective….

1. The number 23 refers to the principles of organization.
2. When Caesar was assassinated, he was stabbed 23 times.
3. There are  23 axioms of the geometry of Euclid.
4. Circulation of the blood through the human body takes 23 seconds.
5. Children receive 23 chromosomes from each parent.

Now for the Law of Five, another rather interesting concept in numerology. Simply put, the law of five is defined as all things happen in fives or are divisible by or multiples of five or directly or indirectly related to five.

What does it mean when put all together? It means whatever you wish it to mean. Numbers will appear in your life as often as you look for them. The power they hold is no greater than the power you’ve assigned them. Numbers are simply that-numbers.

In order for numerology to be a sound science, there must be consistent algorithms and formulas that work for every instance of each theory. In numerology, no such consistent formula exists. You can make numbers bend to your will without too much effort-unless, of course, math isn’t your best subject. Then, it might take you a while to get the desired results.

I think I’ll be sticking to sound science with provable laws and evidence of having worked in an expected way. However, I do find the game of numerology to be quite entertaining. I hope you have, too.

For I’ve never seen their faces.

Momma do they pity me,

Or look upon me with good graces?

Momma do they sing for me

For sounds I’ve never heard

Momma are they kind to me

Or think I’ve ignored their every word?

Momma will they play with me

Although I’m not the same

Momma will they be my friends

Or are they filled with shame?

Today’s random thought: Society can only see differences when they are visually apparent. All other differences must be discovered in other ways.

We all pass the handicap parking spaces, but our eyes glance to check out the license plates and placards to make sure a car has a right to be there in a busy parking lot. We all readily recognize a person in a wheelchair as having a difference requiring accommodations. Yet, we can’t recognize a disability we can’t see. In fact, some people won’t even acknowledge such disabilities are a real and common occurrence.

I came to this conclusion after reading several blogs about the matter, families dealing with such instances. Some of those who have suffered a brunt of society’s insistence on being able to see the problem include children and adults with muscular problems, such as MS in the beginning stages, respiratory difficulties that only exude symptoms in the face of exertion, and many of the deaf and hard of hearing communities. There are countless others, but I am not a medical expert nor can I provide a comprehensive list of every possible disability that may fall under scrutiny.

I am, however, part of the deaf and hard of hearing cultures. I do require special seating in shows in order to use such services as reflective captioning and looped infra red amplification. To look at me, though, you’d never know I had such a disability at all. To hear me, you would still insist that I chose not to answer your question when in fact I never heard you. This has garnered me years of apologizing to rather irritated people in public who assumed I simply shunned them.

I am sure I am not alone. However, the problem is one that we as individuals who have such disabilities can correct with a little work. The basic problem lies in the lack of education and emphasis put on the invisible handicaps that are not placed upon the highly visible ones. And, as with anything, fear of the unknown and ignorance keeps society as a whole in the dark.

Most of the blogs I read were negative and little more than ranting outcries about the lack of compassion and understanding others have when we go out into the public forum. While we all need to vent at times, this really isn’t conducive to reaching a solution. There is a much better way, a way that is harder for us as individuals to confront, but one with far reaching potential to help us in our daily lives.

I often explain, both in sign and in verbal language, to those whose comments I read. I say read because I lip read when too many noises are present and I can’t keep up with conversation. I find that once I’ve explained the situation, attitudes change. When someone is rude to me because they believe I have ignored them, I again chose to explain the problem in as much detail as they are interested in. This, again, results in a completely changed attitude. If everyone who has an invisible disability or cares for a child or loved one who does would spread a little knowledge around, the road to acceptance would be paved much quicker and more easily. Knowledge can erase the barriers of ignorance and bring pride to the testament of the courage and devotion it takes to fully embrace that which is difficult or different.

I also think we need, as a society, to practice the benefit of the doubt. Unless we possess all the degrees that say we are an authority on what does and does not constitute a need for special accommodations in public or in private, we’ve no business judging anyone. I think the Bible makes a reference to this: Judge not lest ye be judged. That line holds more truth in it than meets the eye.

I also believe that everyone is entitled to every benefit that helps them lead a normal, productive life whether that be a wheelchair or an  unseen aid or adaptive  device.  Instead of pointing fingers or whispering comments that may not be so inconspicuous the next time you see someone using a service that you aren’t sure they need, consider that heir disability may very well be one that the eye can’t readily see.

As children, we remember things rather differently than we do as teens or adults. I believe this may be directly related to our personal understanding of perception as we gain in experience and logic. A child may remember only that their parents were equivalent with God himself. By the time the teen years roll around, memories of childhood and current memories are defined as an attempt by the parent or parents to ruin the teenager’s life. In adulthood, another about face occurs as we realize the details of our memories that truly shaped who and what we are today. There is a fondness for all things that contributed to our being whether the original memory was seen as a positive or a negative one.

Also in adulthood, we reach a level of logic and compassion that lets us view our memories from the perspective our parents must have seen them as well as our own previously flawed perception of past events. It is what allows us, in my own humble opinion, to form a new appreciation for the sacrifice made to us by those we once were embarrassed to be seen with due to their advancing years: Our parents and grandparents.

I spend a great deal of time conversing with the elderly members of my community. I am drawn to them and love to hear their memories of growing up. I think they have a wealth of knowledge to pass down, if only we take the time to listen. As such, I have asked a few of them to share their stories, to allow me to write down what they had to say, to allow a new generation to laugh and cry with them. Most have agreed, hoping to contribute in some small way to the happiness of another. I know many of their stories have helped me in my own life as I have gained a wealth of possibilities from some of their recantings. I hope that you find some gem inside of what they had to say as well.

Such is the case of Emma. She is a woman who lives alone near my home who is in her late 80′s. However, she’s anything but old. Her eyes twinkle with excitement each time she sees me coming up her walk. Never have I had the opportunity to knock on her door since the first visit I made as she always comes out to meet me halfway. She’s lonely, as are most of her dwindling generation, and my visits give her a sense of happiness and purpose.

I met Emma accidentally. She was at the grocery store I frequent gathering what she needed for the week. Her thin, frail-looking frame seemed to bend as she struggled to handle the heavy cloth bag of groceries. I offered to carry it to her car for her. Emma declined, explaining she’d never driven and wasn’t about to start now. Those befangled machines scared the bejeebers out of her.

I laughed, admitting I didn’t drive either. I’m not scared of cars, I explained, but I do have a seizure disorder that makes it dangerous. (I’ve been seizure free for over a year, but I still won’t take the chance, by the way.) She told me how responsible I was, followed by the hollow assurance that her granddaughters were probably just like me. I asked if she saw them often. As is too typical, she admitted she rarely saw any family.

I offered to visit if she liked, explaining I rather enjoyed a good conversation and a good cup of coffee. Emma inquired as to my liking of tea, to which I assured her was another enjoyment of mine. I gave her my number, written largely to ease strain on her eyes, and suggested we first get to know each other in a public place.

At first, our visits were held in a little cafe. We’d each get a piece of pie and hot tea. Then, we’d spend an hour or so just talking. I discovered Emma was a twin, had four grown daughters-none of which lived anywhere close, twelve grandchildren and three great grandchildren. She hadn’t seen any of her grandchildren for more of a decade and she’d never seen her great grandchildren. However, she was as proud of them as if she’d been a part of their daily lives right from the start. She loved them even if they didn’t know who she was.

She was a widow, I a married woman with a teenage daughter. Her husband had passed away more than twenty years before our chance meeting in the grocery store. Still, as she spoke of him, there as a deep respect and love that emitted through her every word. I silently prayed I would have the same feelings if anything ever happened to my own husband.

It wasn’t long, about a month or so, before Emma invited me to spend an afternoon at her house. I accepted. By this time, Emma knew I loved to hear about the days of yesteryear, would listen for hours to stories held only in her memory, and absorb every detail of them into my own memories. So, at that first meeting at her house, she told me a story about her sister, Ella, and herself during their growing up years that filled me with mirth, sympathy, and triumph all at the same time.

Her story revolved around food-one dish in particular-and how it had caused so much difficulty. It brought to mind the memories I have of food as I was growing up. And, it sparked the beginning of an idea for a book. When I am able to put it all together, Emma’s story will be called the only title it could ever be–The Chicken Wars.

With her permission, I am including a shortened version of that story here for your enjoyment. Perhaps it will spark a memory of your own of a simpler time in your life.

As told to Irish Monahan by Emma

It was bound to happen. It always did. The second my twin sister Ella and I stepped into our house after school and inhaled the heavenly scent of our mother’s fried chicken, we knew. Yet, we never could stop ourselves. You see, it seemed to have to happen to help make that chicken taste even better.

Ella and I always fought. We didn’t argue as much as try to out do each other. As twins, we tended to be about the same. Our likes were similar, our faces were similar, our tempers were definitely similar. But, don’t let the squabbles we got into fool you. Ella and I were as close as two sisters could be right up until the end. Ella passed away a few years ago. Me, I’m just too stubborn to let go and join her just yet.

Back when we were kids, we’d go to school and come home to do the afternoon chores. I fed the chickens and gathered the eggs while Ella helped milk the cows and get them in from pasture. Sometimes, we’d help pick a few vegetables from the garden, too, but Momma usually took care of that herself. Daddy did the morning chores and headed out to work every morning. He worked in the factory the next town over to help make ends meet and tended the farm early in the morning. I think he’d have preferred to stay each day and work his own land, but there wasn’t a way for him to do that. Money was always tight.

When we were finished of an afternoon, we’d head for the pump in the yard and wash up. Ella splashed me with water and I her, but we both ended up clean in the process. It was one of our favorite times of the day.

Afterward, we’d make a mad dash into the house where wonderful aromas would meet us. Our mother believed in cooking full meals, the kind that made your mouth water just thinking about them. She had special touches for every single thing she fixed, even the simplest ones. In fact, when there was a church social to attend or a bake sale, our mother was among the first to be asked to bring dishes. Everyone loved her cooking.

However, fried chicken night was special. We knew that meant golden crisp chicken lightly seasoned to perfection, a fresh bowl of fluffy biscuits with delicious gravy, mashed potatoes and Mom’s special green beans. We also knew there’d be only two legs and Ella and I wanted them. We didn’t want to share them, but rather keep them for ourselves. This was the crux of our difficulties when the smell of fried chicken filled the air.

At first, our discord was minimal, barely breaking the sound barrier of our mother’s eagle-like hearing. The first warning would come wafting down the hall. Ella and I always ignored it.

We would taunt each other, daring the other to say something. The argument grew. We’d lightly push one another in an attempt to show who was boss-and boss meant owner of the coveted chicken legs cooking on the stove.

The second warning from Momma would come, more stern than the first. Still, we paid her no attention even though we both understood there’d not be a third warning.

Our voices would raise and names would be called. Ella and I would be so into our argument, we wouldn’t notice the deadly silence that filled the rest of the house. We also didn’t notice the soft clink of Momma’s iron skillet as it was removed from the fire and set to the side. We did, however, notice when Momma came into the  bedroom we shared  carrying the black belt.

Now, before you wonder about our mother’s discipline tactics, keep in mind that this was in the day when spankings were commonly used as means of altering childish and unacceptable behavior. Our mother never abused us, but she did teach us the law of the black belt, and she taught us not to act like fools…or at least tried to.

After receiving a few swats on our bottoms with the belt, both Ella and I sat on our beds sniffling. We  quickly reunited as we complained about how unfair it was, denying any involvement into our misbehavior. Momma would return to the kitchen, put the chicken back on the burner, and continue as if nothing had happened at all.

Half an hour later, we would be seated at the table, each with a juicy chicken leg on our plates.

This routine of ours, the fried chicken wars we fought, would continue throughout our childhood and into our teenage years. As was common back then, young women often married quite early. The last time we had this little disagreement, we were sixteen. Ella got married a few months later to a wonderful man with whom she had a good life and six children. It was only with her marriage that we stopped bickering over Momma’s drumsticks. I ended up winning the prize: I got both of them!

Do take some time to visit with the elderly in your neighborhood. They’ve wonderful stories to tell…they only need someone willing to listen and share it with.

After thinking about it for a while, I decided I wanted to do something special for the new year. I didn’t want it to be exactly on New Year’s Day as I felt this should be something to help all of us keep a few–ok, maybe part of a few–of our resolutions. So, I came up with a contest and giveaway especially for this purpose.

What’s the catch? It’s simple, really. I want more viewers for my blog and my site. With this goal in mind, I decided to have a little fun with both while satisfying my need to share with others those things about which I’m passionate.This contest has a couple of tiers and a few ways of winning.

Here’s how to enter:

1. You can complete the questions for the scavenger hunt and leave a comment on the blog to let me know what you think the answers are.
2. If you tweet about my website, Irish’s Story Playhouse, you must mention the contest and let me know about your tweet in the comments of this blog. Make sure to include the link to your tweet.
3. Finally, you can write a review of Irish’s Story Playhouse in your blog and leave a link to your post in the comments of this blog.

What do you get?

The first person to answer all the questions in the scavenger hunt correctly will receive a hand bound journal. These journals are made by Irish. They are 96 pages of fine parchment, cloth covered, and artistically designed. Each one is hand stitched with fine linen thread and bound in the old style. Winner will be announced in the comments of the blog. Winner will have 48 hours to email their address to Irish at info @  irishstoryplayhouse.com  in order for the book to be shipped. Please remove the spaces before sending the email.  If winner does not email the necessary information within the time frame, an alternate winner will be chosen with the same time requirements until the book is claimed. Please allow 2-4 weeks for delivery. Estimated retail value: $35.00

For those who tweet about Irish’s Story Playhouse, a drawing will be held. The first three names drawn will receive a copy of StoryTeller Tymes: A Collection of Children’s Stories and Poetry Volume 1. Winners will have 48 hours to email their address to Irish at info @  irishstoryplayhouse.com  in order for the books to be shipped. Please remove the spaces before sending the email.  If winner does not email the necessary information within the time frame, an alternate drawing  will be held and the same process repeated until the books are claimed. Please allow 4-6 weeks for delivery. Estimated Retail Value: $7.49

For reviews of Irish’s Story Playhouse, the editorial staff at Irish’s Story Playhouse will determine the winners. The best three reviews in the opinion of the editorial staff will receive Ten Dollar Gift Certificates for Amazon.com Reviews must be thorough and well written. Reviews should be your honest opinion.  You will NOT be disqualified if your opinion is not completely positive. We want you to be honest above all else as your reviews will also help us to improve our website.  Winners will need to send their email addresses to info @ irishstoryplayhouse.com within 48 hours in order to receive their gift certificates. If winner does not email the necessary information within the time frame, an alternate winner will be chosen by the editorial staff of Irish’s Story Playhouse,  and the process repeated until all gift certificates are claimed. Gift certificates will be sent within two weeks of the end of the contest via email. Estimated Retail Value: $10.00

The Fine Print:

This is a voluntary contest. Decisions of Irish’s Story Playhouse and its Editorial Staff are final.

Please realize that Irish’s Story Playhouse is a website for children. It aims to teach, provide stories and poetry, and give a safe home to children and their families on the web.

You may link to Irish’s Story Playhouse on your own website. If a reciprocal link is desired, please make sure your website is very kid friend and very kids safe. Otherwise we will not be able to provide one. If your site is child and family friendly, we would be more than happy to exchange links.

Must be a resident of the  U.S. excluding Alaska and Hawaii. Offer void in Puerto Rico or where prohibited by law.

This contest is only for fun. It isn’t meant to be anything more than what it appears. Please keep that in mind. Have a good time and we look forward to your visit to our site.

Scavenger Hunt Questions:

1. Who is the artist of the manga coloring pages on Irish’s Story Playhouse? Where can these pages be found? (section of site)
2. What story appearing in the StoryTeller Tymes Web Magazine has elements of the underground railroad integrated into the story? In what issue did it appear?
3. What do Santa and Mrs. Claus share upon his return to the North Pole in A Holiday for Santa, which appeared in the StoryTeller Tymes Web Magazine? In what issue did the story appear?
4. What is “Scrutineers”? How many different Scrutineers are on the site?(Subjects)Where are they found?
5. In the Music Box, who sings : Baby Bumblebee? How many songs does this artist sing?
6. Where can you purchase downloadable audio stories at Irish’s Story Playhouse? What titles are available now?
7. How many sections does the Story Garden have? What are they and for what age groups are they?
8. What stories are available in foreign languages? (Hint: they are located in different areas.) What languages are available?
9. Where can you find printable paper dolls to play with on the site? How many are available?
10. What video teaches children about strangers? Where can it be found?
11. How many insects are featured in the learning center?
12. In Rachel’s Secret, chapter one, who does Rachel meet? Why is this friend so special? What is different about her?
13. What is the poem Tell Me a Secret about?
14. Where can you submit stories, poems, articles, and art for consideration of publication at Irish’s Story Playhouse?
15. Where can the current and archived copies of The StoryTeller Tymes be found?

Have fun and good luck! Can’t wait to hear your responses! You may enter as many different ways as you like. However, you may win only once. Multiple entries are allowed.

Contest will run from January 5 through February 5, 2010.

Such was the case this morning in the wee hours before dawn. I couldn’t sleep, as is usual. My thoughts refused to take a break and I am in the middle of doing final preparations for the January Issue of The StoryTeller Tymes. So, this bout of insomnia is not a stranger to me. It occurs with a regularity that could make clocks obsolete. Add to that the updating that is behind this month, and of course there is no time to sleep.

The night started out fine. I sat in my office busily working on the final images and arrangement of the magazine (which will be completed by the 6th this month) and making plans for the front page of my site-sorely neglected throughout the holiday season as I traded work for time with friends and family. I dutifully sipped my coffee and made notes, drew, and even wrote a bit.

Two o’clock saw me taking a break for a late-night dinner. I enjoyed some homemade enchiladas heaped generously with cheese and sour cream. After eating, I did attempt to go back to work, to finish what I had started, to make a huge leap in my timeline. My mind, though, had other ideas. It simply would not obey and stay on task. (I’ve thought about grounding it, but decided against such tactics when I realized how far that would put me behind.)

I had watched a documentary- Dominick-After the Party-a bit earlier in the week on Netflix and felt compelled for some reason to ponder it this morning around three thirty a.m. For those that may not know, Dominick Dunne is a writer who covers the criminal acts of many famous people. He has an association with Vanity Fair and has appeared on television many times. He even has a show on cable network in which he covers celebrity crimes he’s written about.

So, you might be asking yourself, how is this important?

Well, it’s important in the fact that he became a writer in the most simple of ways: he just tried it. That sent me on a tangent of thinking about what makes a writer a writer, why writer’s write, and most importantly, how it all relates to me.  I even began thinking about what I would do if I couldn’t write. The pure jolt of fear that coursed through me left me sweating and cold at the same time. I discovered writing is to me what breathing is to life. I cannot entertain the idea of never placing my hands across a keyboard or taking pen to paper.

Then, I remembered a line from the movie Sister Act. Whoopi Goldberg’s character told one of her students that if she went to bed singing and woke up singing and could think of nothing else, then she was indeed a singer. As the line played inside my head, I realized that I felt that way about writing. I live it. I breathe it. I will suffocate without it.

Next, I thought about what makes a writer a writer. It certainly can’t be a love for grammar, as I have none. It can’t be the desire to study English Literature, as I don’t get into that. And, as Dominick Dunne has proven, it can’t be having taken classes to learn to write.

I came to this conclusion on the question at hand: A writer is anyone who enjoys telling a good story, whether truth or fiction, for the sake of sharing a good story. A writer is someone who has a passion for words, who searches for new and imaginative ways to use language, and who dreams of nothing but the next opportunity to write.

As for the question of why a writer writes, I believe it is to first entertain the creator of the story then to entertain the audience of the work in the case of the fiction writer.. Finally, a writer of fiction writes to make a difference in the world in some small way. And, this is where my thoughts get sticky. This definition of why works for only the fiction writer, so there must be other reasons. Journalists and reporters writer, in my humble opinion, for the glory of sharing information, of making a difference. In fact, there are as many different reasons writer’s write as there are types of writers.

For example, I write children and young adult stories. First, I write because the stories please me. I also write for the audience’s pleasure and I write to teach. Sometimes, I even write just because I want a child to smile. Most important, though, I write to give the world the stories that reside inside of me. I write to make a difference.

In essence, my little tangent of thought was really nothing more than a quick glance at myself. Sometimes, I need that glance to remember that it isn’t about the money I make (trust me, even a flea would starve) or the time spent inside my imagination. It is about sharing a piece of me with the world that may indeed make someone else’s life a little happier. I hope I always remember that: to be true to the the real pleasure of making another’s day brighter through the gift of a few words on a page.

Irish