K bye, Vella

I’ve known of Vella’s impending doom (officially closing in February) for a few months, but I held off on announcing it because it didn’t seem worth mentioning.

Losses come in clumps for me. In 2020, I lost my foster daughter and my ministry within two months of each other. While most of my wailing during that time was focused on Izzy, I had enough brainpower left over to grieve the closed church doors as well. Both losses hurt, and closer to equally than I would have admitted at the time.

But the current clump has a clear winner. And it’s not Vella.

Mom

There are few things you care about losing while you’re losing your mother.

Sherry Johnson
01/06/1954 – 10/02/2024

When I read the email from Amazon, I shrugged and swiped it away. Mom was in ICU. Her rapid decline was all I could think about.

I didn’t write. Didn’t publish. Didn’t check if the crown sat atop my most popular book. Didn’t care that what I’d been doing for two years was about to poof.

The Zon Giveth, and the Zon Taketh Away

A few months after losing my mom, I finally asked myself how I felt about Amazon’s decision.

Ross sums it up pretty well:

I’m an outlier, as usual. Many of my peers found the news distressing. But for me, Vella’s demise brings the same relief as the canceling of a show I’ve stopped enjoying but can’t stop watching.

It’s About Time!

Part of being a good writer is knowing when to shut up. Always leave the audience wishing for more.

I will forever be thankful for the experience Vella gave me. I put myself out there, got some great feedback, made a little cash, and met some incredible people. But I was ready to go.

I’m glad Vella’s poofing, because it might be the only way I was going to leave. This doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like escape.

What’s Next?

My plans could change, but right now I’m thinking I’ll publish at least one of my books here on my website. Free! Which is exactly how I feel.

The Pinkish Cup

Am I crazy? You be the judge.

I recently confided to my bestie that I might actually be bonkers. Maybe not diagnosable, but at the very least, missing some mental hardware.

My Confession

I’m sure we all have quirks we don’t talk about. Maybe everyone experiences moments of doubt about their sanity. We talk to ourselves, possibly even to inanimate objects.

But does everyone try not to hurt a cup’s feelings? Because that’s what I do.

I’m sharing this, not because I really believe I’m crazy, but because I think I just figured out that I’m not. Bestie told me when I confessed this bit of weirdness to her that I’m not crazy. She’s a therapist, so she knows what she’s talking about.

But I don’t take anyone else’s word for it. I had to do this myself.

Therapy is good. So is not needing it anymore. Knowing when you’ve stopped needing it is key.

I’ve stopped doing EMDR, stopped seeing a therapist at all. I figured out that I work through the process naturally now. Most people gain that ability after a while, but I did it fast. It’s probably because I’m a writer, always seeking hidden connections and the ever-elusive why? In this case …

Why do I try not to hurt a cup’s feelings?

You may not be ready for the why yet. I’m sure the how has eluded you. Yes, I’m aware that cups don’t have feelings. In my brain, I’m aware. But my practice suggests it hasn’t quite squared up in my heart.

How to Hurt a Cup’s Feelings

I have a coffee mug warmer. Aside from my towel warmer, it’s the best gift my husband has ever given me. Now I can sip hot coffee all day with nary a visit to the microwave. It also allowed me to narrow my collection of lidded coffee mugs down to two. Anything that couldn’t sit on the warmer had to go.

My minimalist son would say one cup is enough. He’d toss out the less preferred one with no regard for its feelings. But I kept two, and they sit side-by-side in the cabinet. One is red and white striped, the other pinkish with faded print that once proclaimed Mommin’ Ain’t Easy.

The two cups are the same shape, weight, and size. They feel the same in my hand and on my lips. They maintain equal toastiness. They’re both faded to the point of ugliness. The pinkish one enjoyed its hay day when I had a daughter, the red and white one after I lost her.

Don’t get sidetracked!

My feelings about Izzy are not the point of this post. I’ve processed the love and loss of the foster child I dreamed of adopting. I don’t think I avoid the pinkish cup because of some unresolved pain associated with it. A future post may refute this claim, but it’s still not the point.

I choose the red and white cup every time it’s available. And I feel bad every time.

The worst is when the pinkish one is in the cabinet alone, but I know the red and white one is clean. I must either settle for the pinkish one or close the cabinet on it and go get the red and white one from the dishwasher. There’s no hiding the rejection when I choose the latter.

I’m feeling a sickness in my tummy as I type this. How must the pinkish cup feel when I close the door on it? It’s right there waiting for me, oh-so-convenient, but I go out of my way to choose the other.

I’m crazy, right?

I’m not stupid, after all. I know the pinkish cup feels the way all cups feel. Like cups, which don’t feel. The problem isn’t what I know.

It’s how I feel. Guilty. Cruel. Icky. Then stupid for feeling that way. What’s wrong with me? Do I actually have to overthink everything?

Yes, actually. It’s what EMDR trained me to do. That may not be an accurate assessment of EMDR. I’m not a therapist. But it’s the best way I can relate how I experience this process.

I take something I view incorrectly, like that I can hurt a non-feeling object’s feelings, and seek out why I see it that way. This requires me to be still and quiet, to allow myself to feel things I hate, to think things that come up while I feel that way, and to let connections writhe around until they click together.

What I realized today is that I don’t feel sorry for the less-loved cup. I AM the less-loved cup.

Once I made that connection, I went out onto my patio and got very still and quiet. I let all the memories that support my false-belief that I’m less-loved come to the surface. I watched them weave themselves together, creating a pathetic, but somehow convincing, story about my lessness.

And like magic, the straw appeared. You know the one. Its back-snapping weight is legendary. I isolated the single event that took my penciled-in ugly self-view and carved it in stone.

Favorite is a Four-letter Word

I knew I wasn’t either of my parents’ favorite child. I wasn’t my teachers’ favorite student. I had the Jan Syndrome, caused by a superior older sibling.

But there was one person I felt confident about. Granny Jacobs. I wasn’t her favorite. I couldn’t be, but neither could anyone else, because she didn’t have them. And that was enough for me. Loved equally was my happy place.

Until it wasn’t.

The Straw

We’d planned to give Granny a special gift. I don’t recall what it was or for what occasion, but it was a big deal. We didn’t buy it. We made it. One of those paint-it-yourself crafts. Since I was the most gifted artist in the family (meaning I colored in the lines, drew decently, and had mastered the art of putting dots at the corners of my letters) I did the work.

And since I’m the dramatic princess that I am, I planned out the giving of the gift as well, casting myself in the lead role. Princess Rach would place the gift into Granny’s hands.

My work garnered praise. My plan, not so much. I probably needed to be brought down a notch, but what actually happened was far worse. It turned me into a pinkish cup.

“Tim should give it to her,” I was told.

I’m sure I asked why. My heart has a fist on it right now as I recall trying to understand why my masterpiece would be better delivered by Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.

“Because it will mean more coming from him. He’s her F***rite.”

Little Rach tumbled down the rabbit hole, tiara askew, when she discovered she was less-loved, even in the most sacred place. In Granny’s perfect, non-favoring heart.

No one knew what happened to me that day. Not even me. But some forty years later, I’m still tumbling, grasping, disoriented, convinced that someone else could occupy my space better than I can.

I’m pinkish, but I’m no cup.

Am I less-loved? Or do parents sometimes say things without thinking and miss the holes they punch into their children’s hearts? I know I’ve done it. It’s possible the dreaded f-word wasn’t even used and that’s just how I understood it and now translate it. It’s also possible that no one favored my Marcia.

Oh, the journey I’m on! It seems, despite powerful prepubescent evidence to the contrary, I may not be a cup at all. I may be more loved than I’ve ever known.

Sabbatical

Day One

I’ve never taken a trip by myself before. While I was in re:generation, I stayed one night in a hotel to do my inventory. I made the mistake of booking close to home, and as soon as I was finished with my work, I went straight there. This time I found a cabin 3 hours from home and booked a 3 night stay.

The Drive

I knew before I hit Rockwall (meaning, within 30 minutes of driving away from my family) that this was going to be difficult. I cried before I left the house, then again when I turned down the first unfamiliar road.

All I could think about was doing this incredibly selfish thing–leaving my family for 4 whole days of rest. Would they eat well while I was gone? Would Gabe get to his classes on time? Noah likes to be alone, so I worried less about him. But Phill. Trying to work and drive Gabe places and feed everyone. Maybe even himself?

I’ve been married since I was 19, a mother since I was 21. Somewhere along the way, I lost who I am. I’ve been trying so hard to find her. So far, I haven’t located her in Oklahoma. It’s beautiful here, but like I told my husband this morning, it’s also beautiful at home.

Slow Start

I’m feeling a little panicky, because I’m still me here. I came all this way, but no magical unlocking of my block has occurred. Episode 131 of Carousel is still open on my computer, still not getting written.

No one is interrupting me. If I can’t write here, I can only blame myself. Maybe that’s what I came here to learn.

I kind of hope so.

EMDR

In my first EMDR session, I learned that I don’t know what I’m talking about. Not that I didn’t know. That I still don’t.

It’s not a terrible place to be, because I like to learn. Also, the less I know, the less I’m afraid I’m forcing things to happen. It felt a bit that way, anyway. I’m tap-tap-tapping, letting my mind do its thing, and when it stalls, I try to make it move. I want to get something out of this, and going blank feels unproductive.

How can I reprocess a memory if no memory comes to me?

The process felt a bit like playing with an Ouija board. (Yes, I did that when I was a kid. No, my Baptist preacher father wouldn’t approve.) Looking back, I know someone was moving the triangle thingy, and I’m pretty sure I know who it was. Sometimes it was me. It was funny, and I’m not sorry.

But grownup Rach tried very hard not to force anything during therapy.

The sessions went like this:

  1. Install a safe place
  2. Choose a memory to reprocess
  3. Reprocess chosen memory

Last time I blogged, I thought I would be going from session 1 to session 3, so that’s why it’s been two weeks instead of one since I shared anything. And actually, we didn’t even do the memory we said we were going to at session 2. He started me on a lower anxiety one, a memory I’ve told many times and thought was just a funny (though scary) thing that happened to me once.

The Bull

This memory popped up unexpectedly, and though I always laugh when I tell it, it made me cry during the session. Could be my hormones–they make me cry over everything–but I got stuck pretty hard. And that’s kinda the point.

Remembering it made me feel stuck. Constricted throat, heart pounding, frozen with fear.

When I was around 7 years old, I was staying with my Sunday school teacher at her house in the country. She had a bull. I saw her go in its pen to feed it and decided it must be tame since it didn’t charge her. We had bulls at our house, too. We rode them, didn’t fear them.

This bull didn’t know me and didn’t want me in its pen. It lowered its head and thundered toward me. I had only just stepped inside, and it had a long way to run. I could have stepped out and closed the gate, but instead, I just stood there. Stuck. Frozen with fear.

Reprocessing

We started with the way I felt as the bull charged me, and then my mind took over. This is where I get iffy. Am I correlating things on purpose, or is my brain working on my behalf? What’s the difference? My therapist said not to resist, so I tried to let it happen. And it went all over the place.

Laughing memories, terrified memories, stuff I can’t explain, and stuff I can. I get why my mind jumped to a time when I was in college. A guy bullied me, and my roommate stood up for me. (Thanks, Meg!) Then she told me I needed to learn to stand up for myself.

Next I jumped to a time when I was very young, toes curled around the end of a high board, too scared to dive. Then I was at my desk, scared to hit publish. Then with my brother, fleeing an angry turtle. (Did you know they can hiss?) He threw a rock on its back and cracked its shell, because I was too stupid to back away from it. From a turtle!

I revisited a trauma that occurred when I was 18, when freezing took something from me I can never get back.

Then I jumped to a fun game my brother and I played on rainy days. Reading books by flashlight under a mattress tilted against the wall. No idea how or if that correlates.

Finally, I went back to the original memory, where we assigned it a negative idea I believe about myself. By we, I mean me. I chose the phrase that correctly expressed my thoughts in that moment. When applied to all the other memories, especially the one when I was 18, it shattered me. And it felt utterly true.

I Can’t Protect Myself

This surprised me. Not so much that I felt that way as the bull charged me, though I could have protected myself simply by stepping out of the pen. It makes sense to feel helpless when you’re 35 pounds, too scared to move, about to be speared or launched by a raging hunk of beef.

But that it’s affecting me today? That it’s not just a funny memory I tell to explain to people that I’ve never handled fear appropriately. I’m a freezer. I get stuck. And apparently, I have a core belief that I can’t protect myself. Anyone who knows me is unlikely to think I feel this way.

I’m a beast. Don’t mess with me, because I DO WHAT I WANT! I actually wrote I do what I want on my name tag at re:generation instead of my name. That’s how sure I was that I’m in control. I even drew a little crown on it.

But guess what I picked as my new message to myself. Tearfully, I might add.

I’m In Control Now

I can’t say for sure that I accomplished anything. We reprocessed the memory, changing “I can’t protect myself” to “I’m in control now.” I definitely felt different the last couple times we visited the memory. It makes me laugh to recall myself standing there like a dummy while murder came rushing toward me. But then, it always did. Hopefully, the tone of my laughter has changed.

My therapist said the processing will continue after the session, and he wasn’t wrong. Memories keep popping up, adding to the list of times I’ve frozen. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I don’t know yet if it’s helping me, but I definitely know more about myself than I did before starting EMDR.

Next week, we’ll tackle a new memory. I won’t even bother to predict how that’s going to go.

Radical Rest

Not a Napper

Someone commented to me several weeks ago that they’d never seen me do anything halfway. I assured them there were things, and when they asked for an example, one word came out.

“Rest.”

I do that halfway, if at all.

I’ve been working on myself, following themes that I believe come from God. Trust was a big one. Coming out of my cave, wanting to live again. Pride is ongoing. Pretty sure that one will be around until I die. But rest is the first one I’ve bucked at.

God told me to rest, and I had one question for Him.

“But what do I do while I rest?”

Spiritually, I might as well be five years old, drumming my heels on my kindergarten mat. Because I hate this. I don’t want to do it. I want to be busy. Thinking about resting makes my tummy tense up. Can’t breathe!

I have a new therapist, acquired in similar fashion to my previous one. Someone else’s doing. Because I’m not going to seek help. But if it’s thrown at me, I tend to allow it. So here we go, back into the swamp of my thoughts.

EMDR

We started EMDR last week. By started, I mean we installed my safe place. I already had one from doing a couple sessions with my previous therapist.

Granny’s Porch.

If you’ve read my book, Summer, According to Sam, then you’ve already visited Granny’s porch. It seemed to me like the perfect place to call safe, because I have only happy memories there. Sitting in her swing, shelling purple hulls, watching the sunrise while sipping my coffee flavored sugar-milk. Granny’s there, too, watering her plants from a re-purposed milk jug.

But after testing it out, my therapist said I needed a new safe place. Why? Because when he asked me how I felt on Granny’s porch, I gave him a non-restful answer.

“Eager.”

That’s how I feel. Not at peace. Itching for adventure. That sounded right to me, because eagerness sounds safe. Being still doesn’t.

I loved sitting with Granny, loved the peas and the coffee and the sounds of whip-poor-wills. But my feet can’t wait to hit the ground. I was supposed to be trying to stay on the porch, but every time he paused to ask what was going on in my head, I was somewhere else.

On my motorcycle, playing hide-and-seek in the woods. On the trails down to Lake Texoma. Busting rocks to find the ones with sparkles in them. Running, cartwheeling, climbing trees. Granny’s porch isn’t a safe place. It’s a launchpad.

The Boat

He asked me to choose a new safe place, one that didn’t propel me into adventure. I deflated, rebelling on the inside, but not telling him that, because even my therapist doesn’t get to see the really, really, really, real me.

I know me, though, how desperately I want to be anywhere but with myself. So I knew this had to be a place I couldn’t escape. I didn’t think my therapist would approve of a cell with no door, so I went the other way.

Unfathomable space.

The boat is simple, more like a raft, really. No motor, no oars … it can only drift. The sky is clear, the sun doesn’t hurt my eyes, and the water is so still it barely licks my floating platform. I can’t google anything, answer any texts, clean up any messes, learn a new craft. No one can ask me for anything. I can’t win or lose any games. Can’t entertain anyone. I just lie there on my back, not even imagining the next scene I’m going to write, because I can’t type it out anyway. Everything gets really quiet. I take a deep breath. And it comes out quivering.

Ahh, this is what rest feels like?

At first I tense up, because I need to swim ashore and do all the things. Someone needs to clean the kitchen. Make sure Phill eats, because he doesn’t take care of himself either. Wash Gabe’s karate uniform. Get Noah to work.

My terrariums aren’t gonna water themselves!

Actually, they do. That’s kinda the point. But I won’t let them, because I can’t leave the lid on. Gotta tweak, gotta replace a plant, gotta move a rock or a shell. I can’t rest. I can’t stop working, even when it’s all done and I’m just creating work for the sake of staying busy.

But on the boat I have to stop. There’s literally nothing I can do there. It’s not just rest. It’s radical rest. And I had no idea how much I hungered for it. When we test it out, I don’t leave the boat. I’m breathing differently there, and it feels so good, even the lure of adventure can’t budge me.

Tomorrow we’ll use my freshly installed safe place to start a journey. We’ll seek–and hopefully destroy–the voice that tells me I’m not good enough. The voice I’m trying to silence by staying busy. By publishing the best episodes, having the cleanest house, taming a terrarium so ferociously it might as well have plastic plants in it.

And after I confront that voice, I’ll rest.

Chaos

I happened upon a little boy, sitting on the ground beside a hole filled with baby snakes. He was stirring it with a stick, watching them writhe. When he noticed me, he accidentally flicked the stick. Out popped one baby snake, which slithered away.

Dozens remained inside, but his eyes followed the escaped one, and then he looked up at me, mouth sagging, and uttered one pitiful, shame-filled word.


“Chaos.”

I woke up laughing. I’m not big on dream interpretation, but this one felt like a slap. That little boy was me, and though I don’t love having my work compared to a pit of snakes, the way I treat my books sometimes makes the comparison hit.

My Chaos

That baby snake could be a questionable comma or an uncomfortable plot. Or something vulnerable about me that shows through my writing. It could be my focus on attention for myself instead of a heart for the work. And when it gets flicked out, it’s all I can see. Everything else is in order, but I cry, “Chaos!”

So dramatic.

I got sick over the holidays–so sick I missed church and Journey Groups. It went on for weeks, making me skip Christmas gatherings. I even got off schedule with my writing and publishing, though you would think I could do those things while stuck on the couch. But my brain was mush.

I had finished Sam, (book coming soon!) but I came to a dead stop on The Misadventures of Mia Gibbs and barely stayed above water on Carousel. And as for promoting? Nope. I went from dreaming of readers to hoping everyone was too busy to read. I felt like a failure, with a pit too stuffed to stir.

Reset

Being knocked down was the best thing that could have happened to me. All the pointless baby snakes slithered away, leaving my pit less crowded. I confronted my fear of getting behind … by getting behind.

Then I made a new plan. Not to plan. To lean into who I am. Not just a Vella writer, or even just a writer. I don’t mind letting the wind take me where it will, because my Father makes the wind.

I’m back! Writing, editing, publishing, and loving it. Until the wind takes me somewhere else ….

A Time for Everything

No Time Like the Present?

Or no time BUT the present? I live in a constant state of frantic hurry, chasing moving targets, burning myself out. I take pictures so I can look back, forgetting to look around in the moment. I nearly did that today, even after my son counseled me last night to slow down.

Take deep breaths. Clean out the clutter in my mind.

Time to Celebrate!

I published the final episode of Summer, According to Sam today. The book was finished years ago, accepted for publication, and run through the entire editing process. So I could just shrug and not make a thing of this.

But it is a thing. A thing that made me weep with joy today … and I nearly didn’t tell anyone. I nearly didn’t write about it. If you’ve read the story, especially the final episode, the reason for this post will be obvious to you.

I’ve been doing some thinking, the same way Sam did.

Time to Make Amends

It’s easy to forget that people love me and that it hurts them to watch me struggling. I’ve made no secret of my fight to find joy again, to even want to be here at all. I’m not sorry for that, because I believe people need to know they’re not alone. I believe in being truthful. The part I regret is how rarely I share my good days. Days like this one.

Writing is therapy to me, so naturally, I do it more when I’m low. Even now, I’d rather get up and do something else. The house is half-decorated for Christmas, there are dishes in the sink, and I still have two stories to update on Vella.

But here I pause. And I say thank you. Thank you to my readers, to my family, to my herd, to my Father. Thank you for good days and second and third and fourth chances.

How I Feel

I don’t know how I feel.

Sometimes I can’t even find the words. There’s an app for it, and I can’t answer the question.

Existential crisis comes the closest.

I’m so tired of being put in boxes. So many of them I built myself. But others have been assigned to me. Small, female, weak, less than. Tempered with apologetic “this is God’s design” lies. And sugar-coated by descriptions of what “good leadership” should be like. Demeaning me further by explaining what I don’t need explained.

I know who and what I’m supposed to be better than anyone can and should tell me. Or I did. But now I find that I keep skipping song after song after song in my playlist, looking for this one. Because it sounds like my soul.

I didn’t even have to look for it today. I opened the app, and there it was. Like it was supposed to be my theme for the day.

I’ve been considering quitting. Or at least taking a break to see if I even miss what I think I love. But the other side of my soul answers with a different message. The very next song that came on.

So I’m staying here. Staying me. Unapologetically.

A Boy and His Elephants

Yep, another post about Sam.

Or more appropriately, about the inspiration for him. Summer, According to Sam is almost complete on Vella, and in celebration of publishing episode 43, I promised some pictures that inspired one of the scenes.

First, I have to share this post from my old blog, showing a book Gabe and I made together. I’m not sure where the images are stored, so it’s easier to link it.

The costume mentioned in author notes:

boy in elephant costume

The jungle, just because:

He was under the trampoline with the water hose running on it, creating a jungle for his toys.

boy under umbrella with jungle animal toys

And my older son, Noah:

This photo was taken when he was twelve. I used a different one from the same session and changed his eyes in it to use it for the cover. He didn’t like having his picture made and was at his limit when I took this final shot.

boy wearing cruel summer shirt

Together, Noah and Gabe inspired Sam. They’re 25 and 19 now and still two of my favorite three people in the world.

Summer, According to Sam

As promised to my readers at Kindle Vella, here are some pictures from my recent visit to the location that inspired the book.

First Peeks

Before reaching Sam’s neighborhood, you pass what used to be a peanut field.

No crops today, and part of it has now been sectioned off with little flags, which makes me think housing may be going in. That’s mind-blowing to me. I doubt the residents are pleased, based on the “get out” vibes I picked up farther inside.

On my childhood visits, I could tell we were nearing Granny’s house when it suddenly got dark in the car. In book two of Sam’s story, this shadowy entry to Sam’s neighborhood is called The Tunnel.

It’s been about 20 years since my last visit, so I should have expected changes. But they still shocked me. Access to the lake has been mostly blocked, there’s hardly any open space, and there’s nowhere to park unless you live there.

But the biggest shock was seeing Curly’s house.

And to be clear, this is the house, not the shack. In reality, there was no shack.

While I was taking these pictures, a man came from the house next door to talk to me. He might have been planning to run me off, but once I told him of my childhood fondness for Curly, we ended up having a good chat. Turns out I’m even related to him by marriage.


Meeting him made the rest of the trip possible, as he allowed us to park in Curly’s yard and walk down to the lake.

The Trails

If you’re reading Summer, According to Sam, this is how you should picture the first moment of the hunt.

The girls would have gathered right here to study the map when they were about to enter the trail.

The Spiders Arachnids

I remembered (incorrectly, though vividly) the creepy crawlies we upset on the path when we were kids … as spiders. But this trip revealed that they were actually arachnids.

Daddy longlegs, to be specific, also known as harvestmen. I can’t decide which name is scarier.

While we were walking the trails last week, I pointed out “the plant” to my family, telling them I figured the spider encounter was probably exaggerated in my memory, and therefore, in the book as well.

Then I touched the plant, and several of these critters skittered out.

Definitely creepy. And definitely daddy longlegs. I do think they’re what we upset when we were kids, but these were bigger and fewer than I recall.

Most of my childhood visits were earlier in the year, during summer break, like Millie’s visit in the book. This probably explains the difference in the number and size of the creatures.

Maybe the ones from my youth had recently hatched and were huddling together under the leaves? I would have recognized the full-grown version of them, but seeing a busted nest of baby ones could easily have confused me.

Not Sam, of course. The book will get an edit now. But me? Um, yes. I was running, and not an expert on eight-legged beings.

Exaggerated or not, it’s unsettling to watch them emerge.


I don’t know what the plant is, but it was much taller than I recalled, another possible result of the different time of year. Not to mention the decades that have passed. I remember their leaves overlapping, covering the ground between the trees. It’s also possible this isn’t the correct plant, but where I could see the shorter growth, it looked the way I remembered it.

The Lake

The lake, though the water level was pretty low, looked about how I remembered it. In the book, it’s where the kids went to “wade” and ended up taking an unauthorized swim. Another scene inspired by actual events.

I can’t say much about this next shot, because I’m not finished publishing the story. But it’s here for later. And it’s just a hint. Farther down the beach, that soil looks a bit different.

The next shot doesn’t really display anything from the book, but when you see a bird catch a fish while you’re carrying a long lens, you take a picture.

I loved this tree, but more than that, I loved walking behind my son, one of the two inspirations for Sam, and my little brother, the inspiration for Kevin.

And this final image shows where the gang carried the canoe down to the lake.

That’s it for this visit. I’m planning to make another trip, and if so, I’ll try to get some shots of Granny’s and Sam’s houses. Tell me in the comments here or on the actual Vella if there’s something you were hoping to see.