Faith A. Colburn's Blog

For a long time now, I’ve wished for a new Website that better features my books and my blog. It has taken me a little while to get it done, but I’ve just published that site. It’s a little cleaner and the first thing you see on the home/blog page is the covers of my books. Depending on the size of your screen, you will see three or four covers. Please take a gander at the new site and let me know what you think. And I’d love to have you subscribe. That’s easy too.

She thought she could adapt to anything. After all, to save her family, she’d got a job when she was only fifteen—singing in a nightclub. She’d navigated groping, propositions, and men who said she did when she didn’t; she’d joined the Army and learned to build radios and install them into B-24s;  she’d married the man she loved, a shell-shocked veteran, and moved with him to a farm in Nebraska, where the nights were silent and the stars near;  she’d learned to be a farm wife. But in the end, she learned she couldn’t just be missus somebody.

Almost everyone has heard of Pangaea and how it broke up into today’s seven continents. I’ve learned there’s another rift developing that may split a new continent off of East Africa. Of course, earth’s mantle has no knowledge of nor respect for national boundaries, so the break might be ragged and its effect on people may be catastrophic.

As I read about that rift system, I thought about the rift system that has arisen in our country. It has divided neighborhoods and families, with each side claiming the other doesn’t see its side of things. Sometimes, that is true because both sides have stopped listening—preferring only feedback that confirms their own beliefs. In many other cases, each side hears the other and simply disagrees. How tragic when a family has to agree in order to exist.

This rift system has not had millions of years to develop, but only a few decades and adaptation has come about in fits and starts, if at all. We the people have accepted the proposition that, if you win, I lose; that our resources are so limited we do not dare share. We’ve come to believe we’re surrounded by danger and must protect ourselves from “them,” that is, anyone different from ourselves.

Suggest to some people that our economic system could be more evenly divided and you’re accused of communism. Suggest that regulations are really protections and you hear that you’ll destroy business. DARE to suggest that some of those regulations don’t protect anyone or anything of value and you instantly become a climate denier or a greedy capitalist.

I don’t know if the country will get past this era of anger and fear. I don’t know if our families and neighborhoods will heal themselves. I fear for our future and we will need the strength in unity to get through rough times—unity of brothers and sisters and cousins, neighbors and friends, Republicans, Democrats, and Independents. Do we have that strength?

I do not often write poetry, but in one of the meetings I attended in the past couple of weeks, the subject came up of how nobody writes poetry in form anymore. That reminded me of something I wrote once as I was harvesting the last of my garden.

Sinful

Digging potatoes with a garden fork

Prince Harrys’ flesh white and crisp

as glaciers; surely it’s not sinful

to eat them raw. Reddales big

as my hand; boiled and buttered,

are a miracle to feed a multitude.

Squatty Tennessee cheese peppers, a multitude

achingly red as a kiss on my fork;

cauliflowers big as volleyballs, steamed, buttered,

tossed in a stir-fry – tender crisp

zucchini, nacreous flesh, not nearly as big

as the cucumbers diced and tossed with yogurt, garlic – Sinful!

Full-bodied tomatoes fed on compost, they’re sinful

with rich red and orange flesh peeking from a multitude

of cool-scented leaves.  Sweet bell peppers, big,

juicy purple and gold walls yield to my fork.

Tomatillos’ paper lanterns filling with crisp

sticky globes to chop for green salsa. Buttered

beets, deep wine red, tasting of earth, served with butter

crunch, red sails and cimmaron lettuce in sinful

salads complemented by spinach leaves crisp

as broccoli stalks.  A marching multitude

of cornstalks rustle in the breeze; a fork

or a thumbnail pierces one kernel on a big,

full ear, releasing sweet creamery milk. Big

voluptuous, deep purple eggplants, buttered

battered and fried, crisp crust soft to the fork;

or eggplant in cinnamon meat sauce with sinful

lemon and egg topping. Mousakka. Multitudes

of flavors melt in the mouth with the crisp

flavor of Retsina.  For dessert, there are crisp

layers of filo dough – baklava in a big

oven dish – more than enough to feed a friendly multitude.

The scent of freshly-baked bread, buttered

with rich creamery butter and spread with sinful

sweet blackberry jam.  Perhaps I can eat it with a fork.

Surrounded by riches, fresh vegetables buttered

or sautéed in olive oil, dripping with sinful

sauces.  Where will I sink my fork?

I think a lot about families and how desperately they need compassion and connection.

For several years, I’ve worked on three related books attempting to speculate on how well-meaning parents under enormous pressure can fail their children.  I want to know how it might be possible to overcome those pressures and how to heal their shortcomings.

I’ve published book one, The Reluctant Canary Sings about one of those failing families and the pressure it puts on their daughter.

A complicated structure in book two intends to connect far separated members of another family. In a guest post on the Carrot Ranch Website, I’ve written about that structure and what I hope to accomplish with this novel in progress. https://carrotranch.com/2018/04/03/ra...

As I edit my novel in progress, I’m amassing out-takes, the pieces that don’t quite make it. Here is an abandoned (I think) prologue. I call the novel See Willy See, because I don’t have a real title yet and C. Willy C. is my guy’s nickname.

Wind shook the Conroy house like an outlaw dog shaking a chicken. Dirt drifted over fences and between corn rows, sifted into the house through paper-thin cracks, and smothered the barns and granaries. Even the old milk cow had developed a cough.

Duffle by his side, Clive waited to tell his mother goodbye. He watched her through the dust-dimmed window, running the few steps from chicken house to porch door. She had eggs clutched in her apron with one hand, the other hand over her mouth and nose, eyes slits, and shoulder turned to the gale. He heard the door slap against the house as wind whipped it out of her hand. By the time he got there to help, she’d grabbed it and forced it shut behind her. Rushing into the kitchen, she coughed for a few moments as her lungs tried to clear.

“I don’t like leaving you here, Mom,” he said.

“Nothin’ you can do here, Clive,” his mother said. “You better be ready for Ralph.”

“I’m ready, Mom, but I’m just not sure I should go.”

Glancing at his sister Nora, Clive grabbed a sheet waiting in the basin, and passed it to her. She already had most of the windows covered. Wringing and carrying a damp sheet to the last window, he noticed the sound of grit under his soles on the linoleum floor. As his father, Henry, slammed in with a small bucket of milk, Clive and Nora sank to the floor to start a game of tic-tac-toe in the film of dirt from the morning. No point in sweeping it ‘til the wind went down—not really much point then.

As Claire loaded the milk in the separator and Henry shucked out of his coat and coveralls, wind shook the house. The same wind that carried dust into the stratosphere had finished Clive’s dreams as well. At nineteen, he had reluctantly accepted the fact he’d never go to college. He didn’t complain about it. His parents already felt bad enough. At least he got to finish high school. A lot of his friends didn’t.

Instead of college, he and his friend Ralph would leave for California that day. The Conroys had family there and the boys, young men they were, hoped they might find work. At least they could stay with the family for a little while until they found something.

For Grandma’s 100th birthday, we ordered a cake, a carrot cake, her favorite. It was a big sheet cake decorated with a replica of my cousin’s painting of the farm in frosting. Grandma had lived on that farm for 70 years and her eyes filled with tears for just a moment.  We invited everybody—cousins from California and Alaska and neighbors from next door. It was the last time all the grandkids and greats got together in one place.

With an evil gleam in her eye, Grandma looked around and said, “You didn’t think I’d make it, did you?”

My dad died when I was 16 years old. I’ve found out what I could about him and wrote that in a memoir I called Threshold. But, unsatisfied, I wanted to write more to honor him–as I have for my mother.

I followed Dad as far as I could. I know he served with the 158th Regimental Combat Team during World War II in the Pacific. I know his rank—Staff Sergeant— and that all but one of the men in his squad died in the battle for an airfield in Dutch New Guinea. But I had no details, the kind of things that made a story come alive. So—I made up a shadow platoon and placed it in George Company, Second Battalion 158th RCT and followed along during all of their service time.

I made up a bunch of guys and put them in the Arizona National Guard, which made up the core of the 158th. They’re Navajo and Apache, Acoma and Pima. They’re Hispanics and cowboys and I really came to like them. If fact, I liked them and they way they worked together so much that after I killed them in that battle for the airfield, I forgot they were dead and wrote them into the next battle.

In a way, that may have been fortuitous because, when I realized my mistake and write in new guys, I didn’t know as well or love the same way, I didn’t get as attached to them. I suspect, if I’m trying to understand my dad’s experience, the distance may be revealing. When Dad lost his buddies, he may have kept a little distance between himself and the new soldiers.

I accidentally developed a subplot involving his sister. Since she played a central role in my life, I think about her often. I know she and dad were very close, so I decided to write her into the story. I made up an entirely new life for her, making her the catalyst for his decisions. I hope she would have liked that.

My point here is that memoirs aren’t the only to use those family stories and all the familiar characters who inhabit them.

My dad died when I was 16 years old. I’ve found out what I could about him and wrote that in a memoir I called Threshold. But, unsatisfied, I wanted to write more to honor him–as I have for my mother.

I followed Dad as far as I could. I know he served with the 158th Regimental Combat Team during World War II in the Pacific. I know his rank—Staff Sergeant— and that all but one of the men in his squad died in the battle for an airfield in Dutch New Guinea. But I had no details, the kind of things that made a story come alive. So—I made up a shadow platoon and placed it in George Company, Second Battalion 158th RCT and followed along during all of their service time.

I made up a bunch of guys and put them in the Arizona National Guard, which made up the core of the 158th. They’re Navajo and Apache, Acoma and Pima. They’re Hispanics and cowboys and I really came to like them. If fact, I liked them and they way they worked together so much that after I killed them in that battle for the airfield, I forgot they were dead and wrote them into the next battle.

In a way, that may have been fortuitous because, when I realized my mistake and write in new guys, I didn’t know as well or love the same way, I didn’t get as attached to them. I suspect, if I’m trying to understand my dad’s experience, the distance may be revealing. When Dad lost his buddies, he may have kept a little distance between himself and the new soldiers.

I accidentally developed a subplot involving his sister. Since she played a central role in my life, I think about her often. I know she and dad were very close, so I decided to write her into the story. I made up an entirely new life for her, making her the catalyst for his decisions. I hope she would have liked that.

My point here is that memoirs aren’t the only to use those family stories and all the familiar characters who inhabit them.

My work in progress stars Connor William Conroy. His friends call him C. Willy C. Somewhere, years ago, I found a character profile worksheet and I’ve loved using it ever since. What follows is long, but you’ll get an idea of who this guy is.

Connor Conroy Profile

Basic Statistics

Name: Connor William Conroy

Age: 21

Nationality: U.S. Citizen, Irish, Scottish, English, German, Wyandotte. Shawnee

Socioeconomic Level as a child: upper middle class

Socioeconomic Level as an adult: destitute at the beginning of the story.

Hometown:  Elk Creek, Nebraska

Current Residence: None

Occupation: Hobo

Income: Catch as catch can

Talents/Skills: living off the land; can do most manual tasks; interested in and good at making things grow; good at making friends; good at organizing groups of people to accomplish specific tasks.

Salary: None

Birth order: First Born

Siblings (describe relationship): One, Nora. Very close.

Grandparents (describe relationship): William and Frank Carpenter. Close, informal relationship. Often worked together with dad growing up.

Significant Others (describe relationship): Parents, sister, friends. All at a distance for most of narrative.  We’ll get to that long-term.

Relationship skills: Really good. Parents’ example partnership-in-life, openness-and-helpfulness-to-others telling.

Physical Characteristics:

Height: 6’2”  Tall for his generation.

Weight:  155 pounds.  Very slender

Race: WASP

Eye Color: Blue

Hair Color: Connor has a shock of black hair that’s always falling over his forehead.

Glasses or contact lenses? No

Skin color: Deeply tanned.

Shape of Face:  squarish, broad grin, big teeth

Distinguishing features: One gold tooth in front.

How does he/she dress? Informally. Mostly jeans and work shirts.

Mannerisms:  whistles–while he works, walks, does most anything. Sings sometimes–off-key. Runs fingers through hair when frustrated. Rakes it back off his face when he’s trying to concentrate, or work on something.

Habits: No smoking or drinking at beginning of novel–learns both in Pacific. Spends as much time as possible outdoors, looking at wildflowers, checking out birds’ nests, waiting quietly for wild critters.  READING. He reads and writes so many letters and takes so many notes about what he sees in the jungle, he’s earned the nickname Professor.

Health:  Robust good health.  Broad shoulders, narrow hips, well muscled.

Hobbies:  Photography, bird watching, reading, writing

Favorite Sayings: Don’t judge until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins.

Speech patterns: Occasionally falls into folk slang.

Disabilities: Mechanically inept

Style (Elegant, shabby etc.):  Down-to-earth, not given to keeping up with the Joneses. A little vain about dress–wants to be clean, pressed. Wants to look like he cares what he looks like.

Greatest flaw:  Too willing to take risks, to jump into new situations without thinking about the consequences. Often insubordinate, to do things his way.

Best quality: Ability to empathize with others

Intellectual/Mental/Personality Attributes and Attitudes

Educational Background: Finished high school, unable to attend college due to Depression

Intelligence Level: above average

Any Mental Illnesses?  None

Learning Experiences: As a kid, when he starts working with his dad, he finds he’s mechanically inept. When his dad loses all the savings he had in three banks, he learns even your most commonsense precautions sometimes don’t work. Inability to attend college teaches him to adapt to different expectations.

Character’s short-term goals in life:  Stay alive and see some country–contribute to ending the war.

Character’s long-term goals in life:  Connor’s goals change as the story progresses, although somewhere in the background is always the assumption that he will eventually settle down and have a family—take care of living things.

How does Character see himself/herself?  As a fun-loving, friendly guy who’s always willing to help out in an emergency. He knows he’s smarter than some of his friends, but doesn’t set a premium on that. He expects to be an asset to the community if the economy ever settles down so he can do something more than just survive.

How does Character believe he/she is perceived by others?  As a fun-loving, friendly guy who’s always willing to help out in an emergency.

How self-confident is the character? Very self-confident without being arrogant.

Does the character seem ruled by emotion or logic or some combination thereof?  Connor’s a bit of a dreamer, with high hopes that he’ll get to go to college someday and become a plant geneticist. He’s blown away by Luther Burbank’s cross of plums and peaches to get nectarines and he’d like to do something like that. His inability to attend college is a real blow to his emotional universe, but he takes on his father’s attitudes about caring for his own bit of the planet to quell his disappointment.

What would most embarrass this character?  Being unable to complete a task he’s committed to doing.

Emotional Characteristics

Strengths/Weaknesses:  Physical strength, good health, able to see other’s point of view, intelligence, tolerance for differences of all kinds. Not very assertive, naïve, going off half cocked, risk-taking.

Introvert or Extrovert?  Extroverted Introvert. Able to take leadership role, able to easily mix with others, as long as he has plenty of time to himself. Too many people, too much of the time exhausts him.

How does the character deal with anger?  Not easy to roused to anger during first part of novel. Stress of combat gives him hair-trigger which he often vents verbally.

With sadness?  Ignores it and it goes away–mostly. After combat scenes, falls into deep depression.

With conflict?  Willing to go with the flow, sometimes to his own detriment.

With change? Embraces it with enthusiasm.  War changes that.

With loss? Philosophically.  Until losses pile up in New Guinea.

What does the character want out of life? A stable home and family life; intellectual stimulation; to make a difference.

What would the character like to change in his/her life?  More money!!

What motivates this character?  New experiences. Taking care of people.

What frightens this character?  Hurting someone else; loss of friends/family.

What makes this character happy? Unspoiled nature, friendship, new ideas

Is the character judgmental of others? No

Is the character generous or stingy?  Generous

Is the character generally polite or rude? Polite.

Spiritual Characteristics

Does the character believe in God? Yes

What are the character’s spiritual beliefs?  Very nature centered

Is religion or spirituality a part of this character’s life? Not a big part.

If so, what role does it play?  For Connor religion/spirituality is a background sense of connection to the cosmos–though he’s not very aware of the cosmos, just his little piece of it. Seeing other parts of the world enlarges that concept for him, but what’s beyond the earth’s atmosphere little concerns him.

How the Character is Involved in the Story

Character’s role in the novel: main character

Scene where character first appears: First scene

Relationships with other characters:



1. Nora Conroy: — Close sibling relationship, teasing but would do anything to make sister’s life work for her, an attitude that’s reciprocated. Sometimes takes her for granted, but defends her in any conflict situation. Respect verging on awe as sister takes on foreign service–helping Jews immigrate.

2. Claire Conroy: — Respectful son; grateful for mother’s understanding of his less-than-commonsense/practical attitude; very protective.

3. Henry Conroy: — A little rebellious; respects father’s climb out of poverty, but wants to be on his own; not aware of how much he depends on dad’s good sense.

4. Three Hoboes: — Just a passing acquaintance, except for Blackie, who treks the mountain states with him for a season. Serves as Blackie’s teacher about surviving in the wilderness with almost nothing; strong camaraderie between two men; amused tolerance for each other.

5. The men of is platoon: — Protective, sometimes amused, often frustrated—like a father trying to deal with sons’ misbehavior, often in awe.

How character is different at the end of the novel from when the novel began: That would be giving it away.