Stories Matter- Part 3

I could tell you a thousand ways in which stories have somehow impacted my life. I could write about The Little Princess and being able to relate to her as a little girl when we had nothing. I could tell you about reading The Boxcar Children and the hours I spent with my sisters recreating the story in my backyard.  I could tell you about piling on my mom’s bed at night and listening as she laughed until she cried when she read The Stinky Cheese Man.

Something else I enjoy doing though is asking others what their favorite stories are and which stories have impacted their own lives. That’s when stories become magical, when someone’s eyes light up as they begin to speak.

This week I had the privilege of sitting down with Mr. Chris Brown, the director at Williamsport-Washington Township Public Library. My family loves this man dearly. What strikes me most is his love for people and books. He always greets us by name and with a smile. He uses books to reach out to the nursing home, the jail, and those who are sick. He loves to decorate the library for holidays, and plans exciting events for people of all ages. Whenever I need information on a specific topic, he always knows the perfect books and sends me home with a stack of them.

It was a pleasure to chat with him about his position at the library and his love for stories. He said his love for books started in fifth grade. He was a struggling reader and his teacher suggested to his mom to get him anything that he would read. After that, he was always allowed to pick out comics when they went to the grocery store. His vocabulary quadrupled and his love for reading grew. As an only child, books became his companions and his best friends.

As Mr. Brown grew older he had the chance to volunteer at the local library during high school and then later on at the library at Indiana State University. Here he worked with rare books and manuscripts over hundreds of years old. He earned a computer science degree at school, but found he was removed from people. He earned a degree in English Literature and Ancient World Civilizations. He worked for a newspaper where he worked himself up to editor. He hated the word deadline, and again found himself removed from people. He switched to human resources, which led him to his job at the library. He told me that you know you’ve found what you’re meant to do when you go to work and it isn’t work. Once he started at the library, he’s never had to work a day in his life.

When I asked him why stories matter, I filled out 3 ½ more pages in my notebook! He said the book that was life changing for him was the Bible. He said not only is it the most printed book in the world, but everyone should know the tales of the Bible which teach us about the human condition. He also said that the works of Shakespeare are vital pieces of literature because they teach us about lust, greed, love, and betrayal. A favorite book of his is Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. He said he loves the beautiful opening, lyrical prose, and mystery. (It’s next on my list to read now!)

Mr. Brown went on to say that stories help us in everyday life and help to teach us about the human condition. They entertain us, and allow us to experience things we wouldn’t normally be able to experience- a story can take you any place at any time.

Mr. Brown explained how stories are vital to children. In today’s modern age, technology like television and video games don’t allow room for imagination to grow. Books, however, make the imagination blossom.

When children read books with a clearly defined line of good and evil like Star Wars, it teaches them morals. It makes them think, “Do I want to be someone like Luke Skywalker or Darth Vader?” The characters model what is good and evil, and show children what happens when they make good or bad choices.

He also said that stories that have strong female characters are important for young girls. Stories with a strong protagonist teach girls that they can make important contributions to society and give them a strong icon to look up to. Besides learning about important females, we also learn about people of all races. We learn diversity, and from there learn to love others. While it is important for us to see ourselves represented in the book, it is also important to see diversity because it teaches us to understand and accept all types of people in the world.

Mr. Brown always finds a way to bless me and my family, and sitting there and listening to him speak was yet another blessing. I want to say a special thank you to him for letting me interview and write about him, as well as for everything he does to touch our community. If you would like to learn more about the Williamsport- Washington Township Public Library the website is http://www.wwtpl.lib.in.us/ . You can also follow all of the library news and upcoming events on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Williamsport-Washington-Township-Public-Library/124586667505 .

Stories Matter- Part 2

I was laying there strapped to the hospital bed. I wasn’t actually detained, but there were so many tubes coming out of me that they may as well have strapped me down. When the nurses came to try and get me up to walk, I’m pretty sure we spent five times the calories and time trying to get me untangled and out of bed than we did walking 15 feet down the hall and back.

They used the edge of the sheets to lift me to a sitting position. Then they moved this tube over here and that tube over there. They would try to turn me, and my leg would get stuck on my catheter. While one nurse was holding my bags of bodily liquids, the other was moving my IV hanger and oxygen tank. Once we were somewhat settled, one would have to help me out of the bed while the other gently maneuvered all these things around me. Then we could walk, and getting back into bed was almost as bad.

The reason for the jigsaw tube insanity was because of my bilobectomy.  A surgeon had to slice through my skin tissues, my nerves, and my muscles, spread my ribs apart, and remove two lobes of my right lung (and the tumor too). To say I was feeling under the weather was an understatement. I was in my mid twenties, loved to run, incredibly active, and I could barely breathe on my own, let alone move.

On the particular morning I am writing about I was pretty blue. They were going to be removing my chest tube. I should have been elated to get rid of one of the tubes; however, there were many people who decided to enlighten me on their horrific chest tube removal stories. Instead of being happy, I was scared to death. (For anyone who doesn’t know me, I’m the biggest wimp in the world). To make matters worse, my husband was supposed to be there to hold my hand during this torturous event and instead found himself lost in Indy.

While I was in the midst of trying to give myself pep talks to face the day, I heard a knock on my door.  It swung open and in stepped three of my beautiful sisters. They had brought a book with them- an Edgar Allen Poe book.

I know what you are thinking- she’s miserable, she’s alone in her room, and she’s in the hospital… isn’t Edgar Allen Poe a little creepy, a little depressing, and ahem, a little psychotic for her to handle? And didn’t she just write that she’s the biggest wimp in the world?

If I hadn’t had been feeling so bad, I would have laughed my head off when they explained they were at a bookstore and found a collection of Poe’s writing and bought it to read to me at the hospital. The story still makes me laugh today. I wonder what Poe would think if he knew someone had read his stories to bring comfort to a hospital patient?

The fact is that my sisters know me well. I love Poe, and one of my favorite stories of his is called The Spectacles. Without spoiling it, I will just tell you it is a hoot. Unbeknownst to many, Poe writes with humor too.

 My sweet sister Emma held my hand as they removed the chest tube. Then my sisters crowded around my bed. We didn’t talk about my pain. They didn’t make me move around (thank goodness). We didn’t have awkward conversations or silence trying to talk about cancer. Instead, we shared a story together. At a time when I was hurting, it was the ultimate form of comfort. They took turns passing the book around and I was pulled into another time and another place. For a few moments I forgot about my pain and my cancer, and got to listen to a tale that made me smile.

The fact is that when you’re sick at the hospital there isn’t much to do. It is easy to get down and it is easy to not know what to say, but something as simple as a story can change that. They can bring people together, can coax a grin, and can take your mind away from yourself. There is nothing more soothing than being tucked in close to someone and listening to their voice lull through the air as they take the time to tell you a story.

Snow Ice Cream

I could write pages about my love for snow and all of the wonderful reasons why it is amazing, but since this is a blog and not a book, I'll just share one of my favorite things about snow... making snow ice cream!

I grew up with my family near the lakeshore in Michigan where the snowfall was plentiful. It meant ice skating on our pond, sledding on the hills behind our house, skiing, forts, massive snowball fights, and most importantly, snow ice cream. When everyone else at the store was stocking up on canned goods, my parents were throwing sugar and cream in their cart. This recipe has been handed down from my great grandparents (according to my dad) and now my own little girls have learned how to make it.

Give it a try and you'll be wishing for more snow before you know it!


First, pile a mountain of snow in a large mixing bowl.



The necessities- snow, milk, cream, sugar, vanilla, and salt. (P.S. Real vanilla is the way to go!)

Pour the cream in and work it through the snow. The volume will decrease as the snow melts.

Add vanilla, sugar, and a pinch of salt. The dark stuff in the picture is the vanilla.



Add more cream until you get a creamy texture.

Final product- yum!

We always make this by sight and taste, so there isn't an exact measurement for anything. I used 1/2 the carton of cream, a few splashes of milk, 4-5 tablespoons of vanilla (maybe more), a small pinch of salt, and around a cup of sugar. If you don't have cream, don't worry! You can use any mixture of cream, half and half, and/or milk. We add 1/4 cup of sugar at a time until we get the sweetness we want. The best part about making snow ice cream is if you make it too sweet or too runny, you can always add more snow!

The Cancer Files of C.E. Austin-The Meaning of Survivor

As a cancer survivor I often read the writings of other survivors. What do people deal with a year or two, or even ten years after they have been diagnosed? How has it changed them, their bodies, and their lives? And it seems all survivors have something in common- we all look over our shoulders. Even if we are declared cancer free we still have to face years of tests and scans to make sure it hasn’t come back. If something is off with our bodies, suddenly we start wondering if it’s cancer. I dealt with the cancer through shock, but later I felt the fear of the question we all ask… What if it comes back?

That question is like a hood always at the back of my head, and I’ve spent the past week cloaked with those thoughts and fears. It’s been testing time. I’ve been in and out of the hospital, the lab, and the doctor’s office. I’ve been poked and prodded making sure that we’ve done a thorough examination to make sure I’m really cancer free. I spent the entire week stressed and exhausted. I longed to get home and get to my big blue sweatshirt and wrap myself up in it. James was working and the kids were in bed, so I spent the evenings curled up on my couch with tea and books, which was my way of sulking and hiding from everything swirling through my mind.

Then I found myself at the perfect place at the perfect time- a small unfamiliar church to hear my cousin speak about his ministry in Chicago. Before my cousin spoke, a man named Denny stood up to do the meditation. Denny is a cancer survivor, like an uncle, and was an inspiration for me as I went through cancer. He is warm and funny, and always smiling. Again I found myself hanging to his words at a time of need.

He walked up to the pulpit, set his stuff down and put on his glasses. Although he smiled at all of us, his face had a look that said what was coming next was serious. He began to tell a story of running into another man at Wal-Mart. This man was in a wheelchair. When Denny asked this man how he was doing the man said he was great. Denny explained he walked away and began thinking about his own life. What did that man have that he was missing? He was in a wheel chair and he wasn’t just good or alright, he was great. Denny went on to do the meditation about examining ourselves and our hearts like a doctor would examine us if something was off. The doctor would do everything in his power to figure it out and find a way to make it right again.

Denny’s question startled me. It pulled the hood from eyes and let me see. A year and a half ago I could barely breathe. I could barely walk a lap around our small yard. I couldn’t sing or read to my children.  An atypical tumor the size of a golf ball was lodged in my lungs with fingers that sprawled and reached around my lower and middle lobes. I was a sick and miserable young woman.

And here I was eighteen months later sitting in that pew alive. Not only was I alive but I was breathing well. Not only could I breathe, but I had just finished singing several worship songs. I run five days a week and I read to my kids every night. I have every reason to be great, but throw a handful of appointments and tests at me and I’m secluded on my couch trying to survive the week. Why wasn’t I great? On second thought, why hadn’t I spent the last week dancing my butt off with joy instead of sitting paralyzed on my couch?

In that moment, Denny and the power of God’s word taught me the meaning of being a survivor. If I wasn’t a survivor, I wouldn’t be here right now. Instead of wasting the time I’ve been given worrying, I should be enjoying every moment. Every day that I am a survivor means one more day to read the same book over and over again to my kids, one more day to steal a kiss from my husband, one more day to chase after my dreams, and one more day to soak in the beauty of life. Every day I get to wake up and call myself a survivor is a great day.

*Special thanks to Denny for the permission to write this story and for allowing God to work through him to change lives

Prepping for Nanowrimo

I am spending this week in various waiting rooms at different health facilities, lucky me. Since I’m not working and I’m trying hard to keep my mind off the results off those visits, I figured it would be a great time to prep for nanowrimo.

Last November for nano I did some research and outlined for the first few chapters. My story took wings and flew, and then tragically nose dived half way through.

This time around I wanted to be a little more organized and to just be able to have fun writing. I chose to go with a dystopian novel. I have always told myself I would never write a dystopian novel. Unfortunately an idea came to me a few months ago, and all writers know that once an idea hits, it is hard to let go of it. I’m not really sure if I can write a decent dystopian story or not, so the pressure is off and I can just have fun playing around with it.

To start getting ready I picked up several books from the library to get an idea of what is current and classic in this type of genre. The local librarian helped me create the reading list below:

Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Edge of Apocalypse by Tim LaHaye and Craig Parshall

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

One Second After by William R. Forstchen

Divergent and Insurgent by Veronica Roth

                I also have a notebook and a slew of pens tucked into my purse for the doctor’s office. For nano you can’t actually do any writing before April first, but you can work on character sketches and outlines. I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but I think my main character is going to be a fifteen year-old girl. I’m looking forward to creating her and others this week!

If you have ever wanted to write a novel you should think about joining in! Camp Nanowrimo begins April 1^st at the stroke of midnight. You then have the month to frantically write a 50,000 word novel. Actually the rules say that this year you can make your own word count (so if 50,000 seems too daunting, then try for 20,000, or something else)! It is a ton of fun and you can connect with other new and old writers on the forums. If you are interest the website is www.campnanowrimo.org

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I Love You Tomorrow!

In the world of writing, tomorrow is going to be a fun day!

The people who bring us Nanowrimo have worked with the Book Doctors to host Pitchapalooza. This is where nano anuthors got to pitch their stories for a contest, and tomorrow the twenty-five finalists will be released. Out of all of the pitches, twenty-five were randomly selected to have their pitches critiqued by the book doctors.

I entered, and will be elated if I win, but will be just excited to read others pitches if I don't. I'm currently working on two pitches for my own stories, so it will be helpful to read others pitches and see how they are critqued by the Book Doctors!

Also, tomorrow is the day where information is released about Camp Nanowrimo! So far we know it starts on April first, and you have a month to write a 50,000 novel. I had so much fun participating in nanowrimo this year, that I am geeked to do camp. I have already started the prep work for my next novel, and can't wait to fix my writing itch.

If anyone would like to particpate in Camp Nanowrimo let me know. We can encourage each other along the way!

Stories Matter- Part 1

He has brown eyes, deep like semi-sweet chocolate. They’re surrounded by thick dark lashes. It’s my first day subbing. I'm an aide and he looks at me with those eyes and says, “Teacher can I sit on your lap?” He has that little voice. My own kids have lost it, they’re little voices have been amended to sound more like the big kids at school.  I miss the days when they said “fum” instead of “thumb”. His toddler voice, unable to pronounce the words, pulls at my heart. Of course he can sit on my lap.

Soon the other students join us on the rug, and I have a little girl cuddled on the other side of me. The students sing, and talk about the weather, and move around. The little boy doesn’t want to move, he wants to sit in my lap.

“That’s normally not like him,” the teacher says.

He whispers to me, “Teacher, I don’t feel good.”

It’s time for a bathroom break. I walk with the girls, and help them wash their hands and get them lined up. There is a commotion down the hall at the boy’s bathroom. We enter the classroom and the teacher is holding paper towel. The little boy has vomited across the floor of the bathroom. The other students need their teacher, so I volunteer to go to him.

The boy is lying on the floor. He is pale and quiet. I scoop my arms behind him and help him sit so I can wipe the gooey liquid from his face, his hands, and his shirt. His mom will be there as soon as she can. We move into the hallway and the boy curls up in my lap with his head against my shoulder.

He starts to whimper, “I want my mommy.”

“Shh,” I say, “She’ll be here soon.”

We sit and he tries not to cry. I hurt for him; even though I’m in my twenties I still want my own mommy when I get sick. He moves a little so he can look up at me.

“Teacher, can you tell me a story?”

I smile a little. Only his mommy can truly comfort him. I’m not a doctor, and I can’t take the pain from his stomach, but I am a storyteller, and suddenly we are transported to a mountain and a boy and a tiger. The boy and the tiger are best friends and they are searching for a map that will lead them to a secret treasure. Time ticks, but neither of us knows it. Before we find the treasure, mom comes. The little boy smiles at me before he climbs into his mother’s arms.

I come home from work. I can still smell the vomit that soaked into my pants and sweater. The clothes can be washed, but the memory will linger on. My first day on the job, and I’m saturated in vomit. My first day on the job, and I learn God needs storytellers too.

Teepee Time

Today was the perfect day to get out a good ol' roll of "teepee" and put it to use! My family enjoys making things from scratch whether it be a warm loaf of bread or homemade hand lotion. For Christmas we received a mushroom grow kit. It seemed pretty cool until we pulled out a roll of toilet paper for the mushrooms to grow on...

First things first, this is teepee not toilet paper. This is very important to remember. The people who wrote the directions take this seriously. Take your teepee and place it somewhere where it can drain. The directions also stressed that it should probably be somewhere sanitary.

Next, saturate the toilet paper, excuse me, teepee with boiling water. (Do not saturate it by dunking it in the toilet, big no no).

Be brave and show the world your stellar photography skills.

Let your teepee cool. Handling your  teepee before it has cooled could be a safety hazard. This is wise advice because you wouldn't want to have to explain this to your ER doctor.

Stuff your saturated teepee in the special filter bag.

Retrieve your mushroom spores which look suspiciously like seeds,

and dump them into your teepee tube.

Seal the bag.

Tie a bow on top and give it to your favorite person.

The last part was made up, but it probably should be added to the list of directions. Oh the fun you could have giving this gift away!

Place the bag in a dark place for three weeks.

The best part about all of this? After you harvest your mushrooms, you can reuse the toilet paper and do it again. The fact that "reuse" and "toilet paper" are together in the same sentence is what really won me over about this whole thing. Now, who's ready to come eat some toilet paper mushrooms?