Why I Write Author Barb Franzen

Why I Like to Write

     I can’t remember a time when stories weren't a part of me. I remember writing a story about a farm when my mother asked me to read it to the people she was visiting with. I was eight years old and wish I had the story. She told the people that I would grow up to be a writer. A career in writing was postponed by my work as both a teacher and later a mental health therapist although I used making up stories as a means of touching attachment disordered children. I wrote stories in the form of metaphors to help them get better. I also drew pictures to go with these—a means of utilizing my minor in children’s art.

     Earlier before getting my masters as a counselor, I wrote a fair amount of poetry. I spent an entire summer down at the Platte River writing poems about life and nature. I fell in love with the process and had two of my poems published. This summer I have returned to poetry and have enough poems for a book which I intend to call Flying High With Poetry. These are both free verse and rhyming. I have been encouraged and helped by some great poets.

     In addition to poetry, I like short stories and vignettes about situations in life. I publish with Living Better at Over Fifty Plus a lovely on-line magazine and also placed third in Nebraska’s Bess Streeter Aldrich contest. My short stories are based on true life events of interest. I normally have a twist at the end—O Henry Style. Much of what I write deals with small town life and people. Having grown up in Brady Nebraska- which had 370 some people, I know the rural life.

     This year my first book, The Rag Princess came out. It is the story of a Nebraska farm girl who winds up living with an abusive aunt. In the course of her four years with this aunt, she is emotionally and sexually abused. Later she reclaims herself when she falls in love with a rancher from her past. The book is a tough read. I have had praise, but everyone who has mentioned reading the book had laid it down before finishing it. One of my goals was to portray abuse as the monster it is and at the same time show that healing is possible. The book can be bought at Amazon.com.

     In conclusion, I write to record the thoughts that come to me in unique ways and through creative eyes. Writing is a means of recording and sharing my perspectives on life and the many adventures.  As most writers would tell you, “I can’t not write.”

     To sample my poetry go to http://prairiechildhooldnebr.blogspot.com/2014/08/

     I was invited to do this blog by Kimberly Carol. Poet, writer, blogger, and dreamer, revisit her at

http://kimberlycarol.com/ Enjoy her poetry and read about her book.

I want to introduce you to our next blogger.

     Glenda Fralin dedicates her blog wordsprings.blogspot.com initially to interviews of Nebraska writers. This past year she expanded to the national and international literary world. She insists the interview may promote the author, but for her it is a constant learning process. “It’s as if the people I interview are my instructors.” Glenda is mostly home bound because of lung disease, but her love of research and memories of her Kansas and Nebraska roots in the Flint Hills along the Big Blue River feed her imagination with mental pictures and character driven stories. She is a former nurse and holds a bachelor’s degree in business with certification in writing for publication. Glenda, who writes as G. K. Fralin, is currently writing a series of novellas set in the early twentieth century. 

     Author Glenda Fralin The SEARCH print edition  

  http://www.amazon.com/Search-1-G-K-Fralin/dp/0615689442/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1347940292&sr=1-1&keywords=the+search+by+g.+k.+fralin

THE SEARCH kindle books

www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=%28ASIN%3A+B005FCIQKO%29

SIX STRANGE SHORT STORIES

Kindle

http://www.amazon.com/Six-Short-Strange-Stories-ebook/dp/B0095BDIAE/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1347940537&sr=1-1&keywords=six+strange+short+stories

Smashwords

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/212395

Blogs

http://www.wordsprings.blogspot.com

http://www.gkfralinbooks.blogspot.com

Inner Joy: Inner Joy: Why I Like To Write by Barbara Franzen

Inner Joy: Inner Joy: Why I Like To Write by Barbara Franzen: Inner Joy: Why I Like To Write by Barbara Franzen : Why I Like to Write I can’t remember a time when stories weren’t a part of me. I remem...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Life South of the Platte

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Life South of the Platte:     It is said that age two has a significant amount of psychological significance. I put a great deal of faith in this belief. I was two wh...

Life South of the Platte

    It is said that age two has a significant amount of psychological significance. I put a great deal of faith in this belief. I was two when my parents built a new home and moved off the ranch-Though Dad continued to ranch, I was left with only a pocketful of memories: the hired hand picked me up out of  red ant pile, the rooster that attacked me, tumbling down the basement steps, my father's plane crash-I guess it is also true that we remember the traumatic events at a very young age.
     Moving left me with a  hollow spot. While I heard about the country happenings, I didn't get to experience them. For example, there was the rural women's Union Aid Society. These women served at the North Platte Canteen during the war. They served angel food cake to the soldiers coming through on the train. They contributed to polio by earning money at their ice cream socials held in  July. They used the milk train to take canned produce to Omaha for the orphans at the Nebraska Children's home. They also had summer picnics, showers for new brides, and did quilting together. How homey. They even held a bizarre, selling homemade goodies and crafts once a year.
    Then too, the country school was just down the road a mile with the south hills and fields surrounding the playgrounds. At Christmastime, they had a stage for plays and during the spring, played hop scotch and jumped rope. An Oregon Trail marker sat out front. Cars went past at regular intervals with people they knew waving. I can picture the kids walking home in the rain and picking up frogs and earthworms and snow as high as the big red barns.When the school wasn't having classes, there were socials-decorated box lunches where a guy bought the lunch and ate with the girl. How romantic and nostalgic
   The other link was Banner, the country church-surrounded by the same tall hills and corn fields. I remember riding there in our car-It had blinds for the windows, and I recall sitting in a musty basement room eating cheerios.I can hear the songs they sang. Moreover,I see the people on Sunday afternoons during the war. They used the school and church for neighborhood get together s. 
   Not one to let life pass me by, I so longed to live these experiences, that I spent four years writing a book about a family that lived on our place. I got to be in the minds of my characters, thereby reliving the past that I missed. Those four years were so wonderful that now I'm doing a second book. Trauma causes terrible feelings, but in my case,  the ending is marvelous. I'm back on the farm. "The Rag Princess" is a never ending series of stories. I will live each event to the fullest. Join the ride and read along with me as I write.

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: What Nebraska Means to Me

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: What Nebraska Means to Me: I just finished writing my book which is going into publication and here I sit without a break thinking about what Nebraska means to me. Do...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Pastor Gooming Twelve Year Old-The Rag Princess-Mo...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Pastor Gooming Twelve Year Old-The Rag Princess-Mo...: The Rag Princess-Out February by Barb Franzen-Child abused-Grows up and meet rancher  Will Temple from the past. From vicious abuse to tend...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: From the Rag P...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: From the Rag P...: Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: From the Rag Princess-A Child's Vicious Encounter ... :  In writing this story about  a hired hand&#...

Pastor Gooming Twelve Year Old-The Rag Princess-More Scenes

The Rag Princess-Out February by Barb Franzen-Child abused-Grows up and meet rancher  Will Temple from the past. From vicious abuse to tender love story. By child therapist Barb Franzen

 For winning he had a surprise. A red hearts necklace just happened to be in his desk. He would like to put it on her if she would like to have it. "Oh yes, she would love it!" she said finding this unbelievable. Would there be more things to come. Sylvie hadn't given her anything since she'd arrived and it was special to have something form a man that everyone was in love with. Slipping it around her neck, his hands caressed her upper arms. It felt oddly wonderful however fatherly he meant the caress. bending so that she could feel his warm breath on her neck, she reared back embarrassed, shocked. What could she do but giggle. It was just a gesture he was used to, but it had felt surprisingly good. He was saying that everything in here had to be their secret. 'oh yes, she said, that would be fine. It would e just the way she and Ginny Temple ahd done it. He reached over with a bowl of candy then set it down and took one which he placed in the palm of her hand. What a nice soft hand she ahd and maybe he would lotion it for her if she was good, That was it for tonight. He would see her next week when they would talk about her friendships and how she was feeling. Wasn't it nice of Sylvie to want this for her? And wasn't Sylvie a wonderful person. He had talked with Sylvie about all of the things they did in here. Good bye and goodnight. As she was slipping out the door he said, "hey let’s do some mentoring on a country picnic. It will be warm enough time after next."
 The second week he had a second gift. This one was awaiting her but when she reached for it, he said, "No I was just kidding." You have to prove yourself Miss. It's very expensive and the kind that Sonny told me to get for you.
  "Why" she asked. “I didn't do anything for a gift.”
    He smiled sort of looking her over--a look that make her happy and uneasy both. It seemed a little sexy or as if he was thinking of her like that. "Let's talk, “he said. 

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: What Nebraska Means to Me

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: What Nebraska Means to Me: I just finished writing my book which is going into publication and here I sit without a break thinking about what Nebraska means to me. Do...

What Nebraska Means to Me

 I sit thinking about what Nebraska means to me. Does the meaning come from being at the cabin and watching a deep red cardinal sit on the rail today, the prettiest bird I've ever seen? Is it the tress and water that surround me in all their hidden serenity? Or could it be the woman who helped me carry my purchases out of the store, because I looked tired and was spacey? Was it finding an Anne Tyler book in at Good Will, where I also found a first printing of Willa Cather's  "Oh Pioneers" 1940 paperback and a magazine on Nebraska Birds? Maybe it's my granddaughters here in Crete or the Pony Express Park and Methodist Church where our other home is. Some questions are hard put, but from the time when I was two and flew in my father's plane, until I was eight and found  jewelry in the knoll at the family dump and went down town and sold it, I loved Nebraska. It didn't stop there and it won't stop here. This is where I will one day be buried, my ashes scattered to the winds  on the plains. What Nebraska means, to me, and why I love it will remain a mystery-like secrets in the breeze and owls hiding in trees...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Pedophile Pastor Grooming Twelve Year Old in the R...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: Pedophile Pastor Grooming Twelve Year Old in the R...: Pastor Evans in the process of grooming twelve year old Celeste Dusty in the Rag Princess. Celeste a farm girl has lost her parents and is l...

Pedophile Pastor Grooming Twelve Year Old in the Rag Princess

Pastor Evans in the process of grooming twelve year old Celeste Dusty in the Rag Princess. Celeste a farm girl has lost her parents and is living with an abusive aunt, Sylvie.

     Pastor reminded her that he was her only friend and that Sylvie would be furious if she didn’t please him. “You aren’t scared of me, are you, sweetheart? I would never do anything against God, and scaring you would make God very angry. Why are you afraid to sit in my lap?”

     She choked. How would she tell him?

    “Honey, we’ll talk about your fear of being hurt.” Right away, his arm was around her.

     She wanted to scream for him to sit in his chair and talk to her. She was too overwhelmed and shocked to be properly scared. Suddenly, she remembered how often he’d touched her. She guessed he was just touchy as a means of affection.

    “Now, now,” Pastor said. “It’s all right. Give me your hand, honey. Yes, that’s it. Let me soothe you.”

She cried, and he told her sweet things he’d noticed about her. At one point, she realized that her hand was on his thigh and was unsure of how it got there. He saw her looking and removed it, only to put his hand on her thigh. Surely, he was just being kind and wanting to father her …

      Thank goodness, it was time to go.

      Then he was asking her about the doll she had mentioned the second time they’d met. She’d described it. Surely, he wouldn’t. Would he? If so, he must really see her as being his little girl, which wasn’t so bad. Here she was, twelve and going to school with girls who’d have a fit if given a doll, but she craved her old doll.

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: From the Rag Princess-A Child's Vicious Encounter ...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: From the Rag Princess-A Child's Vicious Encounter ...:  In writing this story about  a hired hand's daughter, a twelve year old, whose parents die-and who lands in harms way, my purpose is t...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: MORNING TALK WITH GOD: BLESSINGS AND FORGOTTEN TH...

Nebraska Notes-Passages and Poetry: MORNING TALK WITH GOD: BLESSINGS AND FORGOTTEN TH...: Lord, here sit at 6:45 a.m. a peaceful time of day for talking with you. It's quiet outside the way I like. There's just a bit of sn...

MORNING TALK WITH GOD: BLESSINGS AND FORGOTTEN THANKS

Lord, here sit at 6:45 a.m. a peaceful time of day for talking with you. It's quiet outside the way I like. There's just a bit of snow in the street. My coffee cup is to my right. The office here is scattered with paper, pens, books, a day bed, kitty curled up, a bit straw basket, mys white book case with glass doors, my garage sale book case, and the book case Milan made me, my writing, tussled  covers from a short night, the credenza with art supplies, some fabric, thread, embroidery  needles, pictures on the wall, a few dolls from my collection, nick knacks and art, pictures of family, my Bibles in the cupboard, a candle, a tape recorder for reading into, computers, my favorite stories, song books with songs I like, a box of family pictures, book markers with sayings, poetry that I wrote, thread, a closet with everything, vintage books, drawers full of dreams. In other words, my office defines me and my passions. Nothing big or fancy-that's not me. The things I like are small and intimate and connected to hobbies and interests. This is a sun room with a big window for the sun to shine in, I like seeing out with sun streaming in or a heavy snow falling.
I've described my room and and as you might assume it's special to me. This is the prob;em. To my right in a baskets a saying that my husband ran off and is framing for friends: WHAT IF YOU WOKE UP TODAY WITH ONLY WHAT YOU THANKED GOD FOR YESTERDAY. Lord if that had happened Iwould be without this room, without the food i just ate,  without my husband, my son his wife, our grandchildren, clothing, friends. I wouldn't have the Bible I tucked away, the brisk air to breathe, my mind, our church, my existence, the life I love or the land I find so beautiful, the people who protect America the pastors, doctors, store clerks, the garbage men, my vacuum, stove mop, or most importantly, I wouldn't have you-or rather I would undeservedly. I am not proud of this Lord thank you for everything you've so abundantly blessed me with, Help me to remember to thank you dearest Lord so generous

Preparing Pumpkin( 1919 )and the Virginia Pudding

Quote This from the 1909 Gothenburg Times regarding preparing the pumpkin-

The delicate flavor of pumpkin comes from the long and gentle application of heat. 
Stew the preparation 2- 3 hours. Then mix in the following ingredients:

To each cup of pulp add the following-
  two beaten eggs
 a cupful of sugar
 a tablespoon of corn starch, dissolved in a cup of creme- add-
-half a tsp of ginger and cinnamon and a lemon extract
add a large tablespoon of melted butter
add this to the paste mixture above and bake into a pie...

Virginia pudding is  a southern recipe,  although it is stated that Thanksgiving   is  seen as a Northern tradition  For this the baker needed one lb of stoned raisins, one pound of currants, and a forth a pound of citron (sliced in large baking bowl) dredged with flour a half pound of fresh suet was added and all mixed together-
in another bowl mix one half pound of butter with equal weight of sugar add six egg yolks and beat smooth-add one pint of rich sweet mild-

This is merely the beginning of the recipe. Should anyone want to fix this I will be so kind to write you the rest of the recipe--It surely takes days to fix-I can't imagine but the pioneer wedding cakes were much the same- made over a period of weeks so that one got the cake wrapped in paper.

The Virginia pudding had a sauce on top consisting of sugar. butter, egg white, and lemon rind. In my mind I see a beautiful plantation with a cook madly at work preparing this delicacy which also includes a variety of spices and fruit. I bet it was good, or at least interesting. I think I will stick to the pumpkin above and try an original pie...Happy Thanksgiving from Barb

I See You Lord

I love you Lord

My  Lord I really do

I see you in  streams that flow

In the glow of a butterfly's wings

In green grasses blowing

In the blue of summer skies


You are the heavens above

The joy in my eyes

My hope, my peace, my strenght 

Forever and eternal 

I adore and love you

You are everything good and true 

Barb Franzen

t

Inner Joy: Not Apart

Inner Joy: Not Apart: Not Apart She might have died but wait… We’re not apart− not yet I see her in the curl of the windy waves, hear her  knock ...

A Child's Sandhill Play

I always thought of the hills in back of our home in Lincoln County, Nebraska as being the Sandhills. I was wrong. The Sandhill's soil extended itself out to the Platte River about a mile and a half south of my house. This mile and a half between the Platte River Valley and home, was pasture land. One could stand in the pasture and see the ranch which was nine miles away, consisting of clay land,  fed by the Platte River.
    McCullough's Grove was  a part this area and a  favorite for the entire town. . By crawling between  barbed wire, one found themselves  in a grove with hundreds of fallen logs, trees, owls, and birds. School kids came here for a picnic each year. Back then we brought a sack lunch and everyone had to cross our pasture to get there.That made me proud though it seems funny to consider this.
    My family made great use of that forest. Evenings we would go there for picnics. My father cooked our meat in a skillet while having a work day beer. After eating, we'd sit still in the dark with the awesome, silent cottonwoods, ash, and  elm trees  standing overhead,  with cedars everywhere, keeping their secrets along with the owls and their hoots. One year my older sister had a Halloween party there and hung mummies from the trees, Dad was in charge of dropping them to the ground when the girls walked by. It scared them witless. My sister also built white graves, did the grapes for eyes trick, and other antics. It made for a fabulously spooky and fun party. Other times, we picked currents at the grove. Mother made current jelly which was the best. My friend Eddie and I walked the grove many a hot summer day. There here was an old abandoned house where a man had lived. No one knows who it was or when, but there was a stove pipe and walls still there.
   To the right of the grove, a  cow tank overflowed making a small pond. Eddie and I would walk there after school and put on our skates. It was horribly cold and it seems amazing that we would put ourselves through such a long walk. At that time, we still did not have television or air conditioning. Frankly, I for one am glad. It gave us a chance to be one with nature and the outdoors and to develop patience. Nothing was instant. Usually you had to involve some sort of effort to derive satisfaction.
    Along with the grove, I had my playhouse in the top of our barn which was built to match the house. The playhouse was upstairs and quite elegant. I had my parents red velvet table and chairs up there and I also had little crystal dishes that were my grandmother's. Kids came from town to play there with me. The horses were right outside in the corral. One day Eddie and I got in the tank trying to find the hematite ring that Dad lost. He said he'd pay us. We found it but didn't get paid. He never forgot his omission. Years later in his late eighties, he walked out on Christmas with the ring. It went to my son, and Dad apologized. As I look back to my Sandhills formation years, I feel warm inside. At the time, I thought growing up there was punishment Little did I know the values that would come to me as a result of those hot summer days and frozen winter months. This land still beckons me, calling out, "I am yours forever..." 
Next the ranch, homesteading, and the Platte Valley-templeranch.templeranch.wordpress.comwordpress.com

My Home-Nebraska Sandhills-Prairieland

   I am passionate about the Nebraska Prairie. As a child growing up just outside the small town of Brady,Nebraska,  my father's ranch was nine miles south (with clay soil), while we lived  at the foot of the Sandhills. It was here that I spent hours hiking the hills, hunting for the lake that "didn't exist," and chasing lizards whose tails fell off in my hands. I also found snakes and blowouts from which I jumped, enjoying the free sail through the air. The Sandhills were barren and greatly void of trees. Loaded with various grasses and a sand base, they made wonderful grazing country for cattle. Raising crops was harder due to lack of irrigation and water. A classmate had a party one night and a friend and I sat and looked over the land from a hilltop. Some forty nine years later, I remember how the snow reminded of a huge ocean under the moonlight.That land spread out for miles, hill after hill, unhampered. It was awesome.
   My wish was to spend a winter up there, a really bad blizzard, snowed in. I wanted generated heat, garden produce, canned meat, and all the amenities needed for survival in this less populated area of the United States. Little did I know that these hills were one of a kind. That they weren't to be found anywhere else in the world. Today, authors write a fair amount about them and the people who lived there.I find the Sandhills  most beautiful at sunset, during the winter, when they take on a cold bluish hue that makes me want to fix warm stew when I go home.
   The Sandhills were filled with jack rabbit and pheasants. I used to go with my dad who hunted these rabbits.. I have a picture of me standing on the hill with about six rabbits dangling from my arm..Other times, Dad would go pheasant hunting and he and his pharmacist friend, and a man named, Doc Pyle, would go up north and shoot these birds.Both the rabbit and  pheasant made for delicious eating-I keep feeling that I should apologize. I wasn't the hunter and I didn't watch. Anyway, along with these, I would listen to the coyote howl at bedtime, an eerie, but wonderful sound. Rather lonely.
   One day when I was alone and hiking-I went to my favorite blowout and was on my way home, I looked down and saw a fully beaded and most colorful snake. It took my breath away-both because it was http://templeranch.wordpress.combeautiful and also because I feared it might be poisonous-though I knew it wasn't a rattler. As I remember it had blue and orange beading. I still wonder what it was that I encountered.
    I had a relative, Art Nelson, who owned the Big Dipper Ranch up in the Sandhills north of Brady in Wild Horse Valley. His cattle brand was made to represent a dipper, and he had cowboy boots on the top of the fence posts, used to greet people. At least one pair of boots were still there a few years back.
    I am going to stop here with the Sandhills. I will return with the clay hills, south of the Platte in the Platte River Valley next time. After that, I want to write about the plains in their very early state before they were settled by hundreds of pioneers. After that I have my vast collection of literature to share from.
   The wondrous prairie with its grass, wildlife, flowers, and all that makes it quaint and charming, is part of my heartbeat and soul.  Please share your thoughts and knowledge.I would be most grateful.