Two reams of paper and a printer were prepared for the computer team, who would be going out on their rounds an hour later.
Sara was working hard, throwing her energies behind this dream that Liz Stone and her sister had brought to reality. Even a small ride, errand or home visit touched the lives of those in the program, and she had never enjoyed anything more in her life.
Sara’s fingers opened, smoothing the gentle curve of her stomach where Deputy Sheriff Jesse McCloud’s baby was now in its sixth month. This was her home now.
Someone kissed the top of her head. She smiled, closing her eyes. “Charly, I told you not to kiss me like that. Jesse will—”
She heard a muffled laugh. Jesse drew her around to face him, carefully sliding his arms around her waist. “Am I going to have to get medieval on you and Charly, Mrs. McCloud?”
“I think he’d be very excited by the thought of sparring for a few rounds with you, my love, but Rosa wouldn’t like it, so let’s just keep this secret affair between us.”
Jesse smiled and kissed her as if it was the first time. As if they had all the time in the world.
Which they did.
But when he looked at the boxes stacked around her, the tall officer frowned. “You’re working too hard, Sara. You should be resting.”
Hannah bustled up behind them with a grinning Deputy Rodriguez in tow. “That’s what I’ve been telling her all week, Jesse. You’re her husband. Can’t you talk some sense into my sister?”
Jesse smiled faintly. “I may be able to.” He took the boxes of printer paper and gave them to Miguel. “You two can finish prepping for the rounds today. We’ll be back in three hours to help you plan next week’s visits. Right now, I want to spend some quiet time with my wife. And daughter.”
“Son or daughter,” Sara corrected him. They didn’t know the baby’s gender, preferring to keep a little magic in their child’s upcoming birth.
“Daughter,” Jesse murmured. He turned, his brow rising at the sound of wild barking from the back of his pickup truck. Marlow was braced against one side of the truck bed, paws up and tail wagging. Clearly, he was ready to work, too.
“What’s on Marlow’s schedule for today?” Jesse asked.
Hannah checked her clipboard. “He’s going to visit two homes outside Sedona. Then a tracking demonstration at an elementary school.” Hannah smiled proudly. “After that he’s being interviewed by a reporter from New York. It seems he heard about Marlow’s work here and his bravery in the rescue last year up at Eagle Crossing. The reporter also wants to take some pictures of the people who donate services to Home and Heart.”
Liz peered out from her office, beaming. “Are you sitting down, everyone? We just received a contribution from an anonymous donor in California. He saw the feature story about Marlow and the agency last week, and he’s sent us a six-figure check.”
“Way to go, Marlow.” Jesse went outside, bent next to the truck and gave a high five to the excited dog.
When Sara moved in beside him, Marlow gave her a high five, too.
Strange how comfortable a place could seem after just one year, she thought, studying Jesse’s rugged profile. But she’d never felt more energetic or alive. She had taken some of her best photographs in the past two months, and one had received an international award. That black-and-white shot of snow dusting Eagle Crossing Canyon was going on exhibit in Paris the following summer.
Paris.
A car horn rang out. Two more volunteers were arriving. There was work to be done.
Jesse pointed to the picnic lunch he’d packed and the blanket spread out at the edge of the mesa. “You can see for fifty miles from here,” he said. “I thought you needed to stop and eat.” His mouth curved. “And plan your next set of photographs. The way I see it, you’ll be showing in China next, and I’ve always wanted to climb the Great Wall.”
He had encouraged and nagged and supported her every step of the way. He was almost more proud of the award than she was, Sara thought.
As Marlow settled down beside them and the wind ruffled the tall grass at the edge of the mesa, she knew exactly what it felt like to be home.
* * * * *
Dear Reader,
A first view of Sedona is something you never forget. Walking the high canyons in crisp, cool air is exhilarating, even close to magical. Those who have visited this beautiful corner of the rugged Southwest seldom forget it. What better place than a town with red-rock vistas and stubborn, supportive residents for setting a story of discovery, hope and service?
As I researched this novella, the work of Barbara Huston and her dedicated team at Partners In Care touched me on many levels. For years, my mother and father both did private work with older adults in our county. Growing up, I had clear memories of my mother receiving a phone call, speaking quietly, then moving to her desk and pulling out one of a dozen files organized with her ever-changing list of government agencies, private donors or faith-based support centers. In her quiet way she touched many lives through those calls.
Now, years later, I am delighted to write about Barbara’s work with service exchange, a tool that empowers older adults to remain independent with community support in the home of their choice. Barbara’s skill is to take this innovative concept and build an ever-widening network of support.
Successful? You decide.
In the first half of 2009, Partners In Care’s 2,600 volunteer members exchanged over 25,000 hours in services. They installed 103 pieces of home safety equipment and provided 6,457 rides to doctors and grocery stores. They’ve repaired homes, organized neighborhood social events and provided medical advocacy.
Barbara has a special gift for positive action. She is a firm believer that everyone has something to contribute and is valued for those contributions. With drive and resourcefulness she has created a way for older adults to live safely and independently with the support of a growing network of members. I am in awe of her dedication and enthusiasm.
To learn more about Partners In Care, visit their website at www.partnersincare.org. I’m sure the enthusiastic faces and the stories of the members will touch you just the way they touched me. Please consider becoming involved with donations or a contribution. With your support the network can keep on growing with all the warmth and beauty of a Sedona sunset.
With warmest wishes,
Christina Skye
DAFFODILS IN SPRING
by Pamela Morsi
Inspired by Karen Thomson
Contents
KAREN THOMSON
PAMELA MORSI
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
Karen Thomson
Literature for All of Us
When Karen Thomson opens a book, she is certain of one thing: by turning a page, she is opening herself up to laughter, tragedy, beauty and a profound and deep understanding of how other people think, feel and exist.
She is opening herself up to the world and all its potential.
Karen is the founder and executive director of Literature for All of Us, a charitable organization that reaches out to more than 500 disadvantaged teens in the Chicago area each year with thought-provoking book groups. Most groups are made up of teen girls struggling with everything, including domestic violence, poverty, teen pregnancy and faltering grades.
Karen is convinced that by giving teens a safe place to explore the world and speak their mind about a book they’ve read, they will gain confidence—and with confidence come
s change.
“I can’t tell you what it feels like to look in on a group and see everybody’s head buried in a book, because I know what the alternative is,” she says, sounding perpetually energized and excited. “So this is really good.”
Falling in love with her girls
Karen’s own path to the present has been paved with fabulous books, thoughtful discussions and two epiphanies.
The first happened while having dinner with friends back in 1979 and musing over whether she would go back to work after staying home with the kids for eight years. Finally one friend turned to her and asked point-blank what Karen really wanted. She thought for a moment, then answered, “If I could do anything, I want to be a book group leader for women. And you know what? I’m going to do it.”
For the next sixteen years Karen, who has a B.A. in English literature from Wheaton College and a master of arts in teaching English from Northwestern University, introduced hundreds of female readers to Virginia Woolf, Kate Chopin and Judy Chicago as her book-group business grew by word of mouth. She hosted groups in colleges, retirement homes and in Barnes & Noble bookstores. She ran women’s retreats (“We talked intensely about our mothers in the woods,” she says) and would have kept chugging along if it hadn’t been for a friend who suggested she branch out to disadvantaged teens. Karen wasn’t so sure. She had taught school for a short while before having her own kids and wondered if it would be the right fit.
It was.
Karen volunteered to lead a book group for teen mothers at the Illinois Department of Human Services. That first week she walked into the room with some trepidation and a stack of Maya Angelou poetry under her arm. Only one problem: the fifteen girls whizzed through the three poems she’d prepared—and she still had over an hour of time to fill. The solution? Have the teens write their own poetry.
“I noticed when they read their poems, their body language changed significantly,” Karen says now. “They were proud of themselves.”
Word got out about the transforming and fun book group, and by the next week attendance doubled.
“I fell in love with these girls by the second week,” she says. “I just realized that they enjoyed the group so much and it was exactly what they needed. They were reading and writing. They were creating. It was about them.”
For ten weeks the young women read two books and opened up about their lives. They read parts of the books aloud to keep everyone on the same page and also to increase their reading skills. The teens wrote short pieces about their children’s hair and other personal topics and kept a strict “no put-down” policy about each other’s reading or writing. As their confidence grew, their disciplinary referrals dropped at school.
That’s when epiphany number two hit.
“I thought, Oh my God. This is the rest of my life,” says Karen. “I saw it unroll before me.”
In 1997 she launched Literature for All of Us with a mandate to grow a community of readers, poets and critical thinkers.
More to be done
Today, Literature for All of Us has facilitated more than 240 book groups, reaching more than 6,900 young people. It employs five book-group leaders, a collection of fabulous young women who see the world as Karen does and keep her mission alive. While Karen fund-raises and designs the programs, they head out to Chicago schools to run groups for teen girls and boys. Twenty-five percent of all book-group members are boys now, a program that started after many girls said they wanted their partners and boyfriends to start reading, too.
Members keep the books they read so they can build their own libraries, but just as often they pass them around to friends and family. The organization is also committed to teaching the magic of the written word to young children. Its Children’s Literature for Parenting program introduces parents to relevant and award-winning kids’ books they can read at home.
Karen remembers one young mother she invited to a fund-raising event who agreed to talk about the charity.
“I have a son and I never read to him,” the sixteen-year-old told the silent audience. Then she turned to Karen. “But I did what you said and I put him on my lap, with my arms around him, and I read him this book. And guess what? He was good and quiet. I fell in love with him. And I read to him all the time now.”
Years later, that story still reminds Karen that books have power far greater than any one sentence on a page. They transform the soul and encourage readers to embrace the world so they can make a difference, too.
And while she admits that fund-raising is always tough, finding the time to take the organization to the next level and tend to her personal life is even more of a challenge some days.
“I’m a reader, so I need lots of time to read and write,” she says with a laugh. “But I don’t feel that we’ve fulfilled our whole mission yet. There’s more to be done.”
Pamela Morsi
Pamela Morsi is a bestselling, award-winning novelist who finds humor in everyday life and honor in ordinary people. She lives in San Antonio, Texas, with her husband and daughter.
To readers: young, old and everything in between.
May there always be a good story in your future.
To readers: young, old and everything in between.
May there always be a good story in your future.
CHAPTER
ONE
Calla stepped off the bus on Canasta Street and made a quick stop at the Korean grocery before walking the three blocks to her home. Typically this time of year she made the walk all bundled up and with her head down against the wind. But this fall was gorgeous in Chicago and the city was, for a brief time at least, a place of bright sunshine and vivid autumn colors. Only the slightest nip in the air foretold of the cold winter to come.
She’d lived on Canasta Street for sixteen years. She and her husband, Mark, had moved into their house when their son was still just a toddler. Now, Nathan was in his last year of high school and had just completed his early action application to attend Northwestern, his first choice for college, next year. Calla smiled to herself. She couldn’t help but be proud. She just wished that Mark had lived to see it.
As she approached her block, all the tiredness of the long workday seemed to lift. There was something about a home surrounded by neighbors and friends that just buoyed a person. Every step she took along the well-worn sidewalk was as familiar to her as the back of her hand.
From his porch, old Mr. Whitten waved to her. Next door to him, the Carnaby children, along with their cousins, friends and assorted other stragglers, were noisy and exuberant as they played in their front yard. Two houses past them, Mrs. Gamble sat on her steps, her daughter Eunice at her side.
“You’re home early,” the older woman called out.
Calla just smiled. She was home at exactly the same time she was home every day.
“Did you buy something at the store?” Mrs. Gamble asked.
“Just milk,” Calla answered. “And a half dozen apples. You know Mr. Ohng’s produce is hard to resist.”
“Come and sit a spell with us,” the older woman said. “We haven’t had a good visit with you in ages.”
“Oh, I’d better get home and see what Nathan is up to.”
“He’s sure up to nothing at home,” Eunice said with just a hint of superiority in her voice. “He’s across the street in 2B with Gerty’s wild grandniece.”
Calla kept her expression deliberately blank. Eunice undoubtedly wanted to get a rise from her, but she wasn’t about to give the woman the satisfaction.
“Oh, come up and sit,” Mrs. Gamble pleaded. “That way you can see him when he leaves.”
Calla wouldn’t have walked across the street to talk with Eunice. But Mrs. Gamble was a genuinely sweet older lady who was trapped all day with the bitter unhappiness of her daughter.
So she opened the gate on the Gambles’ chain-link fence and made her way to the porch. Setting her little bag of groceries beside her, Calla tucked the hem of her skirt behind her knees and seated herself on the fourth step, just slightly below Mrs. Gamble and directly across from Eunice.
“How was your job today?” Mrs. Gamble asked.
Calla shrugged. “Fine,” she answered. She knew the woman was eager for details. Calla had been a nurse in Dr. Walker’s ear, nose and throat practice for over a decade. Mrs. Gamble loved stories about diseases. Especially ones where the patient had to overcome great odds to recover.
There’d been no such dramatic cases today. With the coming of fall, the office had been full of allergy sufferers fighting off sinus infections. Calla was not sure how entertaining the stories would be when all the characters were blowing into tissues.
“It’s been pretty routine at the office the last few days,” Calla told her.
“Well, there’s nothing routine about the goings-on around here,” Eunice piped in. “That girl has got her hooks in Nathan and no good is going to come of it.”
Calla couldn’t stop herself from casting a nervous glance in the direction of the apartment building across the street. Gerty Cleveland had lived there for twenty years at least. She was about Mrs. Gamble’s age and had a large family scattered across the city. Less than a month ago, Jazleen—or Jazzy, as Nathan called her—had come to live with her. Calla didn’t know the whole story, but there were plenty of rumors swirling about.
The girl’s mother was on drugs. Or maybe she was in jail. Jazleen herself had been in trouble. Or maybe she just was trouble. Gerty was Jazleen’s last chance. Or maybe she was the only chance the teenager had ever had.
More Than Words, Where Dreams Begin: Black Tie and PromisesSafely HomeDaffodils in Spring Page 17
