Jessica Ferguson

Author, Writing Coach, Speaker

K is for King (as in Stephen)

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You may think it’s odd that while writing my family stories, I’d slip Stephen King into the mix. I think it’s weird too, but I really can’t omit him. He’s been a part of my reading life for years. And my love for reading came from my mom.

I grew up hearing the story about how, as a youngster, she’d slip away from her chores to hide in a tree with a book. I can’t remember seeing her read much of anything all the time I lived at home, but she made sure I had books at my fingertips. She enrolled me in a book club that delivered a classic a month. She also ordered the Encyclopedia Britannica, believing without a doubt those books of knowledge would help us in school.  

While cleaning out my mother’s house, I came across a large box of Stephen King titles. I doubt if she read them. The last year or so, she’s just enjoyed owning books, sitting in her chair and seeing them on her shelves … buying them. Yes, I said buying. Even though she didn’t drive, she found a way to shop. She scoured the classifieds of the local paper and when she saw books for sale, she’d call, tell them she was sending someone to pick them up. I found sacks and boxes of romances, mysteries and Stephen King.

I haven’t read Stephen since Pet Sematery, when he “showed” a young boy being dragged by an eighteen-wheeler down the highway. I couldn’t help sobbing during that scene and didn’t finish it. Packing up my mother’s books and coming across King—knowing she’d never read them—I felt much the same way. I knew too, those hard-back Kings that she probably couldn’t even lift, had given her a bit of comfort. A satisfied feeling. As if she’d read the last page and smiled.

Can you resist a Friends of the Library sale? Have you ever bought several copies of the same book? Wouldn’t you love to write a book that made someone sob? Me too!

 

 

J is for James

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I feel very behind in my A to Z postings. I know I’m not, and that the feeling comes because I’m writing my posts the morning of instead of the night before. Pressure! Early on, I wrote each one the evening before but I’m reaching a point where I have to think, think, think. And then I sprint forward with great energy. That’s how I do a lot of things. That’s why I’m not a very fast fiction writer—I have to think too much and too long.

The letter J could be for any number of my family members: my grandfather John Henry, my dad Jesse, my mom Jerry, me or my cousin Jerry Lynn, or my uncle—James.

I’ve chosen James, my dad’s brother and Jerry Lynn’s dad. James was the youngest of my grandparent’s thirteen kids. You know what that means. Spare the rod, spoil the child?

James was married to my mother’s sister, Charlene. That means Jerry Lynn and his younger brother Neil were my double-first cousins. Jerry Lynn was named after my mom. Eventually, James and my Aunt Charlene divorced. I can remember going to their little house to play (just up the road from ours) and my aunt would be in bed. Dishes were piled in the sink and on the kitchen table. I was always fascinated by the sight of it because our house was spotless. My mom—even though she worked nights and slept days—was meticulous in every way. Remember—the perfectionist. Later on, after James and Charlene divorced, I realized she’d been depressed because she really came ‘alive’ once he was out of her life.

James was a huge part of my life.(See the pic at right.) He was probably the son that looked most like my grandfather—tall and lanky. He drank goat’s milk. Odd that I should remember that. And he was a smooth talker too. That’s what I remember most.

I’ve always enjoyed collecting things—anything paper. Post cards, letters, articles from the newspaper. You name it. I’m borderline hoarder.

Even as a kid, I cut out models from catalogs and used them as paper dolls. And I loved movie stars—especially Marilyn Monroe. I thought MM was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. So when I saw a post card of her on the beach in a two piece swimsuit, I had to have it. I think I’ve mentioned before that I used to write movie stars and ask for their pictures. I had a pretty good collection of them. While this post card wasn’t autographed, it made a nice addition to my movie star stash.

I showed it to my Uncle James. I vaguely remember having a “don’t want to” feeling down inside when James talked me into giving him the post card. I can’t remember what he said, how he talked me into turning it over to him. Told you he was a smooth talker. Imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, I found my post card torn to pieces beneath a tree near my grandmother’s house. Can you imagine how I felt? Why did he do it? Since this happened before his divorce, I’ve wondered if my Aunt Charlene shredded Marilyn in a fit of anger or jealousy. One of the mysteries of my early teen years. And it seems cruel that when I think of my Uncle James, this is what I remember.

My uncle had a drinking problem and checked himself into Rusk State Hospital to avoid going to jail for a DWI. I was in my 20s then. I remember my parents asking if I’d take him a carton of cigarettes. Many years later, he died in a fire at age 56. He’d been drinking and fell asleep while smoking.

I’m sure we all have memories of this sort. We look back and see how loved ones wasted their lives and talents. Stories like this make us sad, but they can make us stronger. We just need to figure out how. Sadly, this entire family is gone: James, Charlene, Jerry Lynn and Neil. My two cousins left children behind who face their own demons and challenges.
But then, don’t we all?

Do you have any memories that fill you with sorrow? How do they make you stronger? Want to share?

I is for Iva

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Iva Mae Roach Shirley was my dad’s sister. When she was pregnant with twin boys, her husband died during appendectomy surgery—only twenty six years old. His two sons were born seven months later.

Iva (everyone called her Ivy) was an elementary school teacher. She attended East Texas State Teachers College in Commerce, Texas. (The picture to the right was found in the ETSTC year book.) With her very first pay check, she bought her mom a dining room set—table and china cabinet. Very unselfish. The picture below is a high school picture. She’s the second girl from the teacher. Doesn’t she look shy?

After I was born, mom and dad moved in with Iva so they could all help each other. Mom took care of the twins who are four years older than me. And she kept them in addition to working as a nurse. She said keeping the boys was harder work than nursing.

Ivy was always my favorite aunt. Look at this picture. She looks beautiful. Even though she was only twenty when her husband died, she never remarried.

Being a single mom with twelve other siblings and two rambunctious kids didn’t make life easy for Aunt Ivy. All of her brothers and sisters thought it was their duty to “correct” her sons. That didn’t always make Aunt Ivy or the boys happy. By the way, those ‘boys’ are still alive today.

Can you imagine what kind of trauma a young pregnant mother would experience, learning her husband died on the operating table? That was back in the 40s. Today, we know that everything the mom experiences the unborn babies experience also.  

I look at the life of my aunt—the struggles she faced, and my imagination kicks in, plotting a romance where some wonderful, wealthy hero-type comes into her life and saves her from raising her two boys alone. Where would she meet him when the only places she goes is work, grocery store, church and home again? The possibilities are endless.

Help me save Ivy! How would you do it? Plot with me!

H is for Hair

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Long hair was important to my grandmother.  She never cut hers. She wore it in a knot at her neck or sometimes a braid wound tight. It was gray for as long as I can remember. Here’s a picture of my little granny with her mom, dad and some of her brothers. Lots of hair!  

Today, ‘they’ say a woman older than 40 shouldn’t wear long hair. You can read about it HERE. My mother used to have long red hair—until I came into her life. Remember, I told you she was a private duty nurse; she worked nights and slept days. I had to entertain myself and one day I did that by cutting her long red hair as it flowed off the side of the bed. I can’t remember if she spanked me or not. Since I’ve blocked that memory, she probably did. She was a spare the rod spoil the child mama.

When I look at this picture of my grandmother when she was young (middle child standing), I can’t help but wonder how she was raised. I know that she was sent to school “in town” along with one musically talented brother. Neither one of them liked the town school and eventually didn’t attend it any more. I wonder how long they did go.

As an older pre-schooler, I stayed with my grandmother while my mother worked or slept because she worked the night shift. Mom said she didn’t like it when I started talking like my grandmother—calling my underwear drawers and the front porch the gallery.

I remember several things about my grandma:

She was a great cook. I loved her egg custard pies. Oh, how I wish I had her recipe.

I remember crawling under a tractor to get some eggs for her.  I bumped my head and she thought that was so funny. I didn’t.

She would wring the necks of chickens, throw them to the ground and watch them flop. Her arms were always scratched up from their sharp claws. Her fried chicken sure tasted good!


When she became ill, my mother was her nurse. Mom would bathe her feet and ‘Mamaw” would never want anyone to see her naked feet—it was sinful, she said.

She was a wonderful quilter. She had a frame that hung from the ceiling upstairs and several of the neighbors would come and do whatever they do on quilting frames. See how much I know about quilting? When she was 90, she entered a quilt in the local fair. (I realize she looks bald in this pic, but her hair is in that tight little knot at her neck.)

Look at these four generations of women: Do we favor? In what way? Do you favor your grandparents or have any neat stories about your grandmas?

G is for Goofy

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Do you ever feel goofy?

After church on Sunday, we went with friends to Johnny Carinos. I’m not a big fan of Italian food, but I do love their raspberry tea and bread. The bread comes in long paper bags. After we ate—there were 8 of us—I saw an empty bread bag on the table and I had the strongest urge to blow into it and pop it! I didn’t, of course, but I really had to restrain myself.

I loved popping bags when I was a kid, scaring my mother and anyone else who was in the house. There’s something about making that loud pop that’s … fun!  Would you think I’m nuts if I told you I pop bags sometimes—when I’m lucky enough to come home from a store with one? Can you imagine an overweight, sixty-four year old white-haired woman blowing up a paper bag and popping it? Well, when I put it that way, I can’t either!

The instructions are right here if you want to give it a try.    

I’ve done a lot of goofy things in my life. Some good, some bad, some not so safe. I think I’ve told you before I’d chip off a little piece of the cow’s salt block and … yeah, you guessed it. Turns my stomach to think of it now.  

Pickle juice? Once my grandmother (paternal) caught me running back and forth to her fridge way too often, to sip her pickle juice.

Funny how that one out-of-the-blue urge to pop a little paper bag brought forth so many memories.

My grandmother (maternal) had a real goofy side to her. There were ten kids in my mother’s family. Eight girls and two boys. My two uncles were a year younger and a year older than me, and a favorite aunt was four years older. My mother was the oldest girl and always said her father would send her and her sisters out to the cotton field then he’d jump in bed with Grandma. From the number of kids they had in the old days, seems like all men did that. To the left, you see my grandparents and my young uncle, David.

I loved going to Arkansas to spend time with my mother’s family. Once, when I was there, my aunt and I slept so late that my grandma grabbed the water hose, stuck it through the bedroom window and sprayed us. She saturated the bedding and water was all over the floor. I’d never seen anything so outlandish in all my life! My mother was a by-the-book kind of person. No way would she have flooded a bedroom to get two kids out of bed. She’d have grabbed a belt or switch … or maybe the broom.

To the left is a pic of Uncle David and me. Of course, I never called him Uncle. He was more like a little brother. To the right, you see how my grandmother aged. Prettier with the white hair, I think.

Special memories are so valuable. My grandparents are gone now, and so is David, but I cherish the times I spent with them, the goofy memories I have.

Do you have a memory that makes you smile? One you cherish? Share it with us.

F is for Family

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F is for Family, of course.

I thought I’d leave you with some quotes that have to do with family.  They were taken from the Brainy Quote site. If you aren’t familiar with Brainy Quote, check it out here.  

People are pretty forgiving when it comes to other people’s families. The only family that ever horrifies you is your own. ~Doug Coupland

 Share something about your family. And have a great weekend!

E is for Elaborate, Embellish, Expound, Enlarge, Expand

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Several of my friends indulge in memoir writing. I’ve given it a try too though I’m not sure I have the hang of it.

Fifteen kids were born into my dad’s family. Two died as infants. I can’t imagine having that many children and certainly don’t know why any woman would want to, but to each her own.

Not all dad’s siblings lived in our hometown, but those that did congregated at my grandparent’s house every Sunday for fried chicken, peas and corn bread, mashed potatoes, churned butter and egg custard pies—among other things. My grandma was a wonderful cook. After dinner, all the kids–no matter their age–hurried outside, yanked plums off my grandma’s bush and chunked them at each other. We had fun, and there wasn’t a squealer in the bunch if one of us got hurt. Looking back, I wonder what the adults talked about inside? Did they argue? Laugh with each other? There’s no one to ask. 

My cousin Sallie and I liked to play cowboy and wild horse. Of course, I was the cowboy and galloped behind her, circling the huge cedar tree north of the house, trying my best to rope her with my imaginary rope. For some reason, I was always Jesse James. Probably because my dad was named Jesse and my uncle was James. I was fond of singing, ‘put ‘em together and they’re Jesse James.’ Silly, huh? Every now and then, that little ditty pops into my head.

 I loved these get-togethers, and being with all my cousins. Sometimes the family would meet a few miles away at a roadside park and spread our food on concrete tables and benches. 

To the left is my grandparents’ wedding picture. Weren’t they beautiful? Papaw (as I called him) would lift me high in the air every time I saw him. He seemed so tall. And in church, the pastor would call on him to pray and he’d kneel on one knee, beside the pew and bow his head. I love that memory.

Life as I knew it ended when my grandfather died in 1956. My mother called my school and told them to have the bus driver drop me off at my grandparent’s house. I remember seeing a wreath on the door and I knew . . . he’d been sick.

Everythingchanged. Looking back, I wonder if Grandpa demanded his family congregate on Sundays after church. Did they really want to? Was he the Jock Ewing of our family? The glue? Once he was gone, we fell apart. We dribbled into my grandma’s house sporadically.

My grandmother’s death 21 years later ended us.  Completely.

I wrote a story about my dad’s family, all those wonderful quirky people that had turned on each other like wild animals. The story went through a number of titles—Grandma’s Revenge, The Day Grandma Died, All in the Family—and won an honorable mention at my very first writers’ conference in San Antonio, Texas. The story never sold but yearnedto become a novel. It never did, though every now and then I grab a pencil and paper and try to plot my family’s tale.

Are you wondering where my E-words come in? Well, sadly or maybe gladly, I’ve elaborated, embellished, expounded, enlarged, expanded my story so much and so often, that I really don’t remember what’s true and what isn’t?

When you write a life story, how much do you exaggerate?

D is for Dial

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How do you feel about name brands? My mother was a name brand mama. During my childhood, she worked nights and slept days. She was a private duty nurse. Both my parents worked hard—there was no social life other than church affairs and family gatherings. All this to say, my mother had very few dresses, but those she did have were quality, bought at the best stores—Fedway, Riffs and Perkins—in my hometown. Mom knew and recognized designer names.  I never did unless those brands had to do with a pair of jeans—Wrangler or Levi. Or a pair of boots—Justin or Tony Llama. (My mother bought me a pair of black leather pants once. Yep, I took them back to the store.)
 My mother and I were/are very different. While she was meticulous and strived for perfection, I didn’t, and still don’t—except in my writing.

Anyway, the necessity and importance of brand names spilled over into the daily products we used. Take fruit punch, for example. Mom bought Hawaiian Punch, and nothing else. I didn’t realize Hawaiian Punchwas so old. Did you know that in 1934 A.W. Leo, Tom Yates and Ralph Harrison developed the first Hawaiian Punch recipe in a converted garage in Fullerton, California? I didn’t either. I have no idea if my mother knew, or why she insisted that brand be the only brand we purchased. I remember we had quite a little disagreement about Hawaiian Punch back in the early 80s. Yes, I returned the off-brand I’d purchased, but we won’t reminisce about that, we’ll move on. 
 
I’d like to say I purchase generic brands, but I don’t. I make very few substitutions.

Dial is the ONLY soap for me. Yeah, I know most people use the liquid bath washes these days (or whatever they’re called) but in my mind they’re totally insufficient and do little more than leave a colorful film on the shower walls. Do they even lather?

Dial for Menhas even won me over, and I know my mother would have loved it. Dial for Menmight have been created especially for my dad to use on those summer days he came home from work all hot and sweaty. He was an electrician in the oil fields.

ScottBathroom Tissue was another ‘only’ in our house, and I find myself following that family tradition. I hate it when they make several different textures of the same product. Soft Scott just isn’t the same as the regular Scott. And what’s the point?

I used Cheeruntil recently. I became really angry when ‘they’ decided to make Cheer for front loaders. I don’t understand why a liquid detergent will work in one washing machine but not the other. I’ve switched to Arm & Hammer but I’ve considered making my own detergent. I mean, really—how hard can it be to get dirt out of a tee shirt and jeans?

I won’t go into all the other products I use and those I’ve decided to ban. But I’ve come to realize, I really am like my mother. With the exception of Hawaiian Punch, that is. She had her reasons for being a brand name mama, and I have mine. There’s no right or wrong. Just preference.

Do you have favorite brands you absolutely can’t do without? What are they and why? Do any of them take you back to your childhood?

C is for Chaney (and ISWG)

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My grandmother’s maiden name was Chaney. I’ve always loved that name. In fact, that’s what we named our daughter. When my romantic comedy was contracted by Silhouette Romance, I had to choose a pen name. I chose Jessica Chaney. I thought it sounded romantic, fun, and memorable. Much to my disappointment, the editors vetoed my choice, insisting it sounded like the name of a horror writer because of you-know-who: Lon Chaney

 
Leonidas Frank Chaney was born in Colorado Springs, Colorado, to Frank H. Chaney and Emma Alice Kennedy; his father had mostly English and some French ancestry, and his mother was of Scottish, English, and Irish descent. Her father, Jonathan Ralston Kennedy, founded the “Colorado School for the Education of Mutes” (now, Colorado School for the Deaf and Blind) in 1874, and Chaney’s parents met there.  Both of Chaney’s parents were deaf, and as a child of deaf adults Chaney became skilled in pantomime. He entered a stage career in 1902, and began traveling with popular Vaudeville and theater acts. In 1905, he met and married 16-year-old singer Cleva Creighton (Frances Cleveland Creighton) and in 1906, their first child and only son, Creighton Chaney (later known as Lon Chaney, Jr.) was born. The Chaneys continued touring, settling in California in 1910.  (taken from Wikipedia)

I wish I could discover a family connection to Lon Chaney.

Are you related to anyone famous? If you are, who? If you could choose a famous relative, who would it be and why?

________________________________________________________

I totally forgot that today is IWSG day.
The purpose of IWSG is to share and encourage and it was started by Alex J. Cavanaugh. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

Because I love IWSG and take it seriously, I’m tacking on a couple of great quotes to encourage you. Wish I knew this guy or gal named … Unknown.

When you feel like giving up, remember why you held on for so long in the first place.
~ Unknown

Instead of giving myself reasons why I can’t, I give myself reasons why I can.

~ Unknown

B is for Brother

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I have one sibling. A brother seven years younger.  Ironically, his name starts with a B. I can’t remember when he was little. For that matter, I can’t really remember when I was little. How much are we supposed to remember about our childhood? I don’t know. I wonder if there’s something unhealthy about not remembering.

 
Seven years is a lot. Sometimes I don’t think brother and I have much in common, then at other times, I realize we do. Often, I don’t feel we really know each other. That makes sense. He lives in one state and I live in another. He never left our hometown except when he went to college; but then again, he’s a world traveler.  

During our adult years, we’ve only spent time together during holidays. I’ve gone to his kids’ graduations and weddings. He came to my daughter’s graduation in Louisiana. And once he stayed up all night playing Nintendo with my stepson. All night. Mario Brothers didn’t have a chance!Brother even called the help hotline when they ran into a problem. He has always been … focussed.

Since the ordeal with our mom, we’re getting to know each other. It’s a little weird. I look at him and I see a grown man. It’s not like he hasn’t been grown for years—he’s in his 50s. I realize I’ve never thought of him that way. When I think of my brother, I remember the kid that constantly tried to make me throw up. I have a very weak stomach and he enjoyed grossing me out. I remember how he always wanted to touch my neck—knowing full well I hated for anyone to do that; still do. I have a lot of quirky hang-ups. I wonder if he remembers them.

A few weeks ago, I sat across the kitchen table watching my brother eat little cuties, those small clemetines that are a variety of mandarin orange, and I noticed how large his hands are, how thick his fingers. I realized he’s got our grandfather’s hands. For some reason, that brought a lump to my throat.
Here’s a picture of my brother’s hand holding my mother’s.

Have you  ever looked at your brother or sister, or mom or dad, and noticed something you’d never noticed before? How did it affect you?