Viking Women DO Care - A Leif-Long Legacy

While visiting family in Summit, New Jersey this weekend, I received an email that was the equivalent of a gut-punch.  A friend from high school and college had died in an automobile accident.  Now I hadn't seen the man since our circle of friends graduated in 1969, but Facebook has enabled many of us to reconnect and catch up on each others' lives.  We had messaged back and forth after I published "Ednor Scardens".  He had been thinking along the same lines, organizing material for his own book, and we traded ideas over several weeks.

A month ago a copy of his book "Viking Women Don't Care - Vol.1, Wrestling with Baltimore" appeared  on my doorstep.  Since it was a non-fiction memoir, I enjoyed delving into it, reliving many of my own teen years and the antics I'd shared within our group.  He was coming down to Baltimore in early December to do a book-signing.  I was readying a list of interview questions to incorporate into an article to promote the event.  Now I'm paging through the book again in sadness as I read his handwritten note inside the cover:  "To Kath, my favorite critic!  Enjoy the memories.  Love, Leif." 

Lawrence Frederic "Larry" "Leif" Evans was a unique guy.  Always sports-obsessed, an activist and organizer, he was like a thousand-piece puzzle that someone put in a can, shook, and dumped out.  Friendly, crazy, and socially-conscious, he was the one who could put together an event for a good cause and make it so much fun that you wouldn't dream of missing it.  He could sell you a bag of dog crap and you'd happily pay for it...and thank him.  He organized school dances, Santa Claus Anonymous charity football events, and much, much more.  Most of us who called him friend didn't have a clue about his painfully tumultuous childhood.  He was one of us, but just crazier.  Leif joined the VISTA service corps after graduation and worked with migrant workers in Florida.  I would have paid to see that.

He labored for several years as a steelworker, and during that time he created a news magazine written by and for the men and women who worked there.   Food banks, group home counseling, community newspapers, community-access television, politics...you name it...if it helped someone, Larry was likely involved in it.

In 445 B.C. the Greek historian Herodotus wrote, "Whom the gods love dies young."  While many would not feel 67 years of age to be especially young, Larry had "promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."  He wanted more time.  So did we.

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To learn more about Lawrence F. Evans, cut and paste this link to the Pittsburgh Post Gazette:  http://www.post-gazette.com/news/obituaries/2014/11/17/Journalist-activist-Lawrence-F-Evans-July-13-1947-Nov-15-2014/stories/201411170057

Funeral details:  visitation will be 2-4 p.m. and 6-8 p.m. Wednesday, with a 7:30 p.m. memorial service at William Slater II Funeral Service, 1650 Greentree Road, Green Tree (15220).

To purchase a copy of Larry's book:http://www.amazon.com/Viking-Women-Dont-Care-Wrestling/dp/0990544508/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1416276257&sr=8-1&keywords=viking+women+don%27t+care

FREE EBOOKS......TODAY ONLY!

As a special, one-day promotion, you can get a FREE copy of EDNOR SCARDENS and THE BODY WAR, books 1 and 2 of the Charm City Chronicles.

Here are the links....enjoy!

http://www.amazon.com/Ednor-Scardens-Charm-City-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B008BODK0E/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1397223952&sr=1-1&keywords=ednor+scardens


http://www.amazon.com/Body-War-Charm-City-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B008D983ZY/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1397225878&sr=1-3&keywords=the+body+war

EDNOR SCARDENS - From Semi-eulogy to Four Book Fiction Series

A cardboard box landed on my front doorstep yesterday.  As the UPS truck drove off, I felt a bit like Gollum from the Lord of the Rings...springing out the door, grabbing the box and withdrawing back into my house cave.  Opened the box and carressing "my precious", I sighed happily that the day I held my printed book in my hands had finally arrived.

The journey from first putting pen to paper - alright, hand to laptop keyboard - had been a long one, and I wondered how many writers had traveled the same road I had.  I was sure that none had started the same way.  Most begin with the intention of writing a short story, novella or novel.  They jot down ideas or carry a germinating story seed in their head for varying lengths of time until, like a baby, it just has to come out.  My own process didn't even faintly resemble that.  My creation was born of fear. 

Allow me to backtrack a bit in explanation.  Years ago, my parents began the sad journey from independent living to assisted living, to nursing facility, and I was afraid that I'd be called upon to put together a eulogy for one or both of them.  I'd been fairly self-centered as a teen, and when I married a military pilot and moved away from home, I missed alot of the everyday things that my parents did.  Long distance phone calls were expensive, and we didn't have the luxury of extended discussions.  The end result was that I missed the opportunities to delve into my parents' past lives, to understand how things really were for them growing up.  My mom had a penchant for spinning yarns about her life whenever she wanted to make a point or issue an obligatory parental warning "from experience".  My sister-in-law and I used to call it "The World According to Irene".  As an example, when she first entered an Assisted Living community, each new resident was welcomed in the facility's newsletter with a brief spotlight based on their answers to general questions.  Mom listed her favorite hobby as ice skating.  She was in a wheelchair, so you get the idea.  Even if I had gotten the time to delve into her past, I'm not sure the answers would have been dependable.

With each family member's passing, my original core of relatives grew smaller, and I had a recurring dream that when my turn came, there would be no one at the service other than my own children and grandchildren.  And they wouldn't know squat about my life before I became their mom.  The dream always continued with one of them standing at the lecturn, fidgeting, and then realizing that they knew very little about me.  It sounds selfish, but who can control their dreams?

So to save them this embarrassment and assuage my fear of an ignominious send-off into the great unknown, I sat down one evening in 2009, intent on typing out a half-assed autobiographic page or two that I could email them for safekeeping until the eventual time came.  What I hadn't counted on was how much I would remember.  As I wrote down little vignettes to keep the account from reading like a timeline diagram, I became possessed.  When I finally looked away from the computer screen, dawn was breaking through the window.  Without realizing what I was actually doing, I sat there, night after night, for three weeks straight, until more than 350 pages had been disgorged.  Surely, my kids never wanted to know that much.

The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards contest caught my eye, so I edited like mad, changed the names of people and schools in the story and entered it.  Although I didn't make it to the final round, I wasn't willing to just let the manuscript sit, so I passed it around to family and friends, unaware that they were actually serving as beta readers. More changes came, adding and deleting to better suit a story that some would actually want to read.  It wasn't strictly autobiographical anymore, but the emotions of the main character still glowed in my brain.  I knew I couldn't let the story and the characters end there.  So I kept writing about them through  books 2, 3 and 4.  By the end of the Charm City Chronicles as I've dubbed them, the characters have matured into adulthood, some married, some living through tragedies and some succumbing to them.

I sent out query letters to literary agents and was encouraged by the number of requests I got for fifty page samples, but without magic, vampires and the like, I didn't find one willing to take a chance.  Then one day I got an email from the head of a nascent group...Fantasy Island Book Publishing, and the result is what you see in the photograph.  One journey has been completed, yet the most difficult one lies ahead:  marketing, media, social networking, and sales. 

And although they'll need to clarify which parts of the book are fiction vs. nonfiction, I don't think my kids will have as much trouble delivering a eulogy.  Just don't let let the opening line be, "The World According to Kathleen".         

What's A Nice Homeschooled Girl From Maryland Doing in Nairobi????

This might sound like just another slick, pick-up line....admittedly, one that you wouldn't get to use too often.....but I got the chance to talk with a young woman just like this recently.  Kaylie Sauter is a soft-spoken twenty-four year old woman from Baltimore County who until a few weeks ago was teaching Art classes in the slums of Nairobi, Kenya in East Africa.  And she's going back to do it again.

I was struck by her strong convictions and her courage, as I'm uncomfortable at times just walking in downtown Baltimore.  So, I decided to ask her why she has chosen this path.

Let's start with a little background.  When you were growing up in Maryland, what kinds of things were you involved in that planted the seed for your current endeavor?

Kaylie:  I've lived in the same house since childhood, in Baltimore County, Maryland. I was homeschooled and then attended Liberty Christian in Eldersburg. In high school I switched around between homeschooling and Mount de Sales Academy while I also attended Carroll and Catonsville Community Colleges. Upon graduation, I went to Houghton College in Upstate New York where I double majored in Art and Communications with a minor in Intercultural Studies - which took me to Tanzania for 4 months.

I vividly remember going to an orioles game with my dad when I was around 9 or 10 years old.  And I saw the same homeless man begging for money on the street before we walked in and again when we left. I decided I wanted to help and convinced my dad to give this man some money.  Afterwards I remember riding back to our parking lot in a shuttle bus and vowing to the Lord that I would dedicate my life to help people. The memory of that man has stuck with me ever since.

My parents encouraged generosity and loving those who have less.

What drew you to what you did and where you were this past year? What made you decide to return?

Kaylie:  I was living in Charlottesville and working with an accomplished oil painter, Malcolm Hughes, while living with my aunt and working part-time at a cheese shop.  But doing all of this still left me feeling restless.

I heard about an organization called BuildaBridge in Philadelphia and agreed to go to an annual event called the Arts Institute that attracts artists world-wide to provide training, networking opportunities, informative seminars, and hands-on arts experience.




I sat down to breakfast one morning with one of the founders of the organization, Dr Nathan Corbitt, and shared with him that I was looking for a way to use my artistic talents in a tangible way that would help those who are most in need. This is when he told me about the position in Kenya. He didn’t say IF you go to Kenya, but used the phrase “when you go to Kenya…”. He told me I would be teaching an art class in the Mathare slum, networking with groups of artists needing support in adopting a community-service mindset, and devloping marketing opportunities.  I would run art camps that BuildaBridge had created, similar to those they've begun in countries all over the world, called The Diaspora of Hope Art Camp.

After being there for a year I've developed deep and meaningful relationships, and I've seen the receptive enthusiasm of children and artists alike. The personal fulfillment of knowing that what I do can bring hope and healing to those living in the slums makes it a no-brainer for me to return.

Did you have any fears about going so far away and to such an impoverished area? Did you have difficulty convincing your parents to agree to it?

Kaylie:  My parents have been great in their support and recognizing that as an adult I can make my own decisions.  They respect that.  I'm careful and take realistic precautions such as not traveling late at night or venturing deep in the slums. Initially, I was fearful of pickpocketing or stealing and was very cautious even walking outside my door.  Now I'm much more relaxed in general.

Have you had any close calls as far as your personal safety is concerned?

Kaylie:  I was mugged at gun point because some guys wanted my computer that I was carrying, but besides that, no!




Have there been any funny incidents or language-related problems due to the very different backgrounds that you and your students/co-workers have?  Anything that made your students look at you like you had three heads due to cultural differences?

Kaylie:  People in Kenya are charged by the minute for their phone use, so when you want to get someone to call you but you don't want to use your own money, you can call just so the phone rings and then quickly hang up… this then shows the person you called and they will feel compelled to call back. This is called “flashing”. In my language, however, flashing means taking off your clothes  So when people would say, “I will flash you”, I thought in my head- please NO!
Have there been any heartbreaks for you in your relationships with your students? 

Kaylie:  My students come from abusive homes, some even physically abusive, and both the mental and physical scars they carry are heartbreaking.

How do you sustain hope in the face of such deprivation and trauma that your students experience? 

Kaylie: I use the arts to teach the children about hope, even in this hard world they were born into. I encourage them individually every chance I get. I speak kindly to them, asking them to dream and challenge their thinking. I visit their homes. I initiate art camps during the holidays so they have something to look forward to. I point them to Christ, who offers himself as their eternal hope.



Anything you'd like to add.......especially if readers would like to make a donation to help support your work?  

Kaylie: Checks can be made out to "Kenya Project" and mailed to: BuildaBridge International, 205 West Tulpehocken Street, Philadelphhia, PA 19144    Anyone kind enough to help should include their name, address, phone number and email.  They should also specify whose work they are supporting (Kaylie Sauter), as we are volunteers.

Here is a link to the video which Kaylie created about her year in Kenya.  The images are gorgeous and unforgettable!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qniwK9BovEg

STALKED BY HURRICANES

In 2006 I moved, returning to my home state of Maryland after spending 36 years in New Jersey, Florida, California, Virginia, Puerto Rico and Louisiana.  If you guessed ex-Navy wife....bingo.  I repatriated to Maryland for two reasons:  family and New Orleans' weather.  For six months out of every year, I was a nervous wreck, watching weather forecasts over my shoulder from June through the first of December.

I'd been relatively lucky, and experienced just two partial house floodings that weren't related to hurricanes.  Both were related to excessive rainfall.  I'd lived in that house for years with no problems, but a combination of poor landscaping, fencing and a neighbor who installed an inground pool sounded the death knell.  After the first flooding, I put in new carpeting and decided to purchase flood insurance.  If you're familiar with flood insurance, you'll know that there is a 30 day period before the policy takes effect.  So, about 22 days after I purchased it, we had 21 inches of rain in 24 hours.  My kids still laugh at my futile attenpt to help the yard drain.....pushing water out of the gate with a broom.  I also knelt on the kitchen floor and cried, praying that the inevitable wouldn't happen.  God probably had too many other people to listen to that night.

Ever since then, my nerve endings would fire up whenever I heard anything approaching torrential rain.  I kept a list of things to pile into the car after having to evacuate twice in the path of hurricanes that missed us:  family photo albums, silver flatware and jewelry(looters), two dogs and a cat.  As August of 2005 came around with its stank heat and humidity, I watched the usual reports of yet another storm forming with an uncertain destination.  As the storm grew in size and intensity, heading toward the bullseye of New Orleans in the form of Hurricane Katrina, I joined the caravan of evacuees and headed toward Natchez, Mississippi to one of the few hotels that allowed animals.  Due to the scarcity of rooms, we were only able to secure a room with two twin beds.  You can only imagine being in that room for four days with the following:  me, my daughter, her then-husband, a 7 year old, 5 year old, 1 year old, two black labs, two cats, a Siberian Husky and a Malamute. 

When my daughter announced she would rather kill herself than stay another night, an old boyfriend of hers invited us to stay with him in Nashville, Tennessee.  I'm inclined to nominate him for sainthood as we stayed there for nearly two weeks before the authorities in Louisiana would allow us to return.   

As anxious as I was to return home, nothing could have prepared me for what I found.  Just a mile from my house, I asked my daughter where we were.  The devastation as we drew closer was unimaginable.  My own home fared far better than most to the south and east of me.  As I opened the front door, the smell of the refrigerator-freezer was stunning.  We bungied it up and hauled the entire unit to the curb.  There was no savlation for that appliance.  There was black mold piled several inches atop my favorite oriental carpet in the family room and forming on the baseboards.  We pulled up the carpeting and padding to join the refrigerator.  I'd had a new roof put on the house the month before (darn it!) which held up well, but lost several sections of the 6 foot privacy fence.  A possum had taken up residence in the garage.

Adding insult to injury, my insurance company denied my flood claim, but having worked in insurance previously, I knew they were wrong.  I argued policy wording with them for nearly two months before I wrote to the White House.  Within a week, the regional superintendant of FEMA came out to the house and decided that my insurance representative must be smoking crack.....of course, it was a covered loss.

So, I finally had the repairs completed, sold the house and moved back home.  Now, I sit at my laptop writing this blog while I keep checking the weather reports for the projected paths of Hurricane Irene.  I've raided my bathroom cabinet for sleep aids and leftover painkillers to suppress the anxiety which swells with each passing hour.  If I didn't have to babysit this weekend, I'd be cozying up to multiple bottles of rum on Sunday.  As far as I'm concerned, Katrina and Irene are both nasty bitches.  I hope God hears me this time.