Rain – Glorious Rain, falling in…

You probably can’t tell that I love rain. But, I’m going to tell you that I love rain. I could probably stop there and you’d understand that this morning’s post is about RAIN in Colorado. We don’t get nearly enough of it here on the plains. And yet, coming home from La Junta last night, we saw miles and miles of rain flooded fields. (Okay, no flood, just rain puddles sitting in the fields.) We do LOVE rain.

I was slightly agrivated. They get rain all the time in La Junta and in Granada, on both sides of us, but here we sit in the middle with NO RAIN.

It’s not that we deserve rain more than they do, or even that we deserve rain at all, but it’s nice to have. That’s my point! So, knowing that, I’m amazed that we don’t get rain. I like green growing things, flowers, trees, moss on the north side of the house. Without rain, or at least morning dew to bring moisture to the ground, we don’t have green growing things… At least, not the ones I want.

So, yes, I’m being selfish here, when I say – I love rain! I actually love having rain in my yard, because it means I have a green growing yard, and the kids have to mow! YEA!

Most days I try to do something other than ramble, but today – ramble is the name of the game.

If you took a moment to read this, I promise something of greater value later today.

Hump Day Greetings!

It’s Wednesday! The sun came up, as per the course of events scheduled for this gorgeous day. There’s the smell of sweet processed feed on a gentle breeze. The birds are making a delightful noise atop the pole this lovely (ly word for Oris – in case he didn’t notice) morning. The children are resting peacefully in their beds, and life is good.  

My neighbor to the north disrupted the day with the sound of prairie thunder idling in his driveway, at the break of dawn, announcing to the world that he has the day off and is going riding on his Harley! His wife must have wanted to go along, because as I heard it ascending on the world, I heard her call to him, “Wait!” The sound faded. He didn’t come back… Therefore, she must have been left alone… But, yah though she would be alone for long – a Mexican Doorbell rang through the neighborhood, twice from the front of her driveway. Her sister awaits in a blue PT Cruiser to carry her off to breakfast – or whereever it is they go on Wednesday mornings…

 And the light begins to dawn, the sun has risen and all must go forth to greet the day.

 Long live the starling!

Write for Profit – Grammar Law Dysfunction

There are days when real grammar just don’t cut it. You have to get out the really funky-junk grammar and make some attempt at getting away with mayhem (which is next in line to bad grammar in literary law). While chattering on a writer forum this morning, our fearless leader threatened to call out the grammar police, and I know she called the punctuation deputies on us. (She’s a real fanatic for grammar justice – or poetic justice. Hmmm)

Jan Verhoeff – Echoes of the Trail

Some mornings as Amtrak rumbles through town I think of how many years I’ve listened to that whistle blow. I honestly can’t remember a time when I didn’t hear it blow, and it it’s late, I just automatically start praying for whatever has kept it back. Often, I’ve known later of a wreck, a flood, or even snow, but eventually, I’ll hear the whistle blow.

Sand Dunes National Monument – Colorado

Sand Dunes National Monument

Sumer vacations in Colorado almost always mean mountains. Whether we find ourselves in the Sand Dunes or high on a mountain looking out over the valleys or just tromping along a clear mountain view, the opportunity to visit the mountains in the summer just make’s sense.

We love the mountains for many reasons, they’re cool, refreshing, and scenic, to name a few. More than that, they’re an opportunity to see God’s expression in our lives. Although, not everyone sees them as grandeur and majesty, there are those of us who close our eyes on a hard day and visualize escape in the mountains.

Rugged peaks reaching up to the sky, puffy white cluods drifting overhead, clear blue skies, brilliant in their presence, and life in abundance speak to me from the mountain. I understand the blessings of God’s gift, the promise of heaven, best in the mountains. There, I see the opportunity to climb higher and experience the grander side of life, as it is meant to be. I feel the freedom of living in a world created by God, untouched by man.

I’d never seen a river flowing through the dunes before. In all the photos I’ve seen, and all the times I’ve been there, the river has never been visible. I realize it’s there, just beneath the sand, but I’ve never seen it. This photo for me, was a rush.

It reminded me that even though I can’t see God, he’s there. Even when I can’t feel the rushing waters of refreshment coming down from heaven, His love is there, reaching out to me and touching me. I believe this photo says it all. Even when I couldn’t see it, the river was still there. The blessing is that no matter how far away I feel from God at any given time, He’s still there. I simply have to open my eyes and I can see God.

Photo by Ashley Denman

Write “The Rain Drops Splatter”

Crisp clear mornings washed bright by rain don’t happen often in Colorado. The dawn of a new day after a rain here often means dirt will blow, or some other gray phenomenon will be coming our way before the day’s end. Not pessimism, just simply the way the rain works in Colorado. There aren’t many rainy days.

As a teenager, we spent many summers in the midwest where rain was more common and I learned that I really enjoyed a good rain storm. Many of my journals those summer days began with “the rain drizzled down the window” and talked about weather systems I longed for back home. “Thunder rumbled and rolled across Michigan, ripping through the forested land like a new plow, laboring under rain laden gray clouds.” Could provide for hours of writing a description of storms rolling slowly overhead as I curled on the top bunk of our family motorhome with my paper and pen a handy friend.

Inspired by The Write One

“There’s one story in your heart that must be written!” The words linger ever nearer as I write each story in my journal. Even more, as I write a book, a short story, or an article for publication, each time, I wonder, is this the story that must be written?

Is that the only story in my heart? Or more, is that THE story I must write?

Then I remember, the quote says, “There’s one story in your heart that must be written!” but it doesn’t say, there’s ONLY one story.

Writing Moments – Do Your Neighbors Know What You Do?

OVer the past several years, I’ve written several books, edited books for several published authors, and been rather visible among publishers and authors in various locations, but locally, I’m known as the kid down the block. I’m no longer a kid, but they haven’t figured that out.

After one particularly lucrative job of editing a book for a well known writer, I received payment in the form of a personal check. That isn’t highly unusual, but it was a rather large sum of money, and I deposited it early one Monday morning. I understood the bank policy not to put cash directly in the account when a personal check is deposited, so I wasn’t surprised when the teller reminded me there’d be a three day delay on the deposit.

Imagine my surprise, however, about six hours later when a local law enforcement official came knocking on my door. He alerted me that he was here investigating check fraud, and although he didn’t have a warrant, he wanted to ask me a few questions. We laughed (I knew him well, and trusted him as a friend and law enforcement officer). I was curious about his questions, and his reason for visiting me, but was floored when he gave me more information.

He was investigating the deposit of a rather large sum of money into my bank account earlier, and wondered if I could explain the name on the check. I told him I’d edited a book for the writer, who sent me the check. He said, “Really, you edit his books?”

I invited the officer in and pulled the contract and manuscript from my files.

“Well, I’ll be daw-goned. You really do edit his books?” His eyes showed complete surprise, and I knew I was going to have to produce more proof.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number on the contract. “Hey-hey, got a minute?” I asked the man who answered on the other end of the line.

“Sure, what’s up Jani?” He asked.

“There’s an officer here, questioning the deposit I made earlier. Can you reinforce the contract, the manuscript, and your identity for him?” I asked, knowing the writer was going to have a hay-day with this incident.

“Sure, I can…” he paused.

I handed the officer the phone.

Each identified the other and they talked about the literary services I provided. Then the officer handed me back the receiver.

“Jani, how many times have I told you that you must MARKET what you do in your home town. If they don’t know what you do, who will buy your books?”

We hung up the phone and I chatted with the officer for a few moments. I’ve learned to plan “writing moments” in public places, where people recognize what I do, ask me about writing, and remember that I’m a writer. Now, they buy my books!

Inspired to Write – The Day’s Beginning

“You may have experienced a glistening morning with dew dripping from the tree leaves, sparkling on the grass, and sunlight glinting off each precious drop, but until you’ve witnessed a morning in southeastern Colorado, you’ve never been inspired.” I remembered the discussion and the quote as I arose shortly before the first lights of dawn fingered their way across a clear sky this morning.

My grandmother was telling about their arrival in Colorado on the first day of April, 1916. With the wagon parked outside the dug out grandpa had helped build the summer before, they’d arrived after dark the night before. There was no lush green grass to greet them, it was early spring, the prairie was still gray from winter and the nights were still cold.

Inside the dugout grandpa had built a fire in the stove and invited the family in from the covered wagon, only to be met by my great grandmother’s refusal to go ‘down in that hole in the ground’. She wasn’t impressed by the half dug out that proposed to be their home, five steps down below the prairie floor. Nor was she impressed a few hours later by the wolves howling around the wagon where she slept alone, grandpa waiting at the entrance to the dug out where he and the kids were safe.

Even today, I can imagine the conversation as it might have been.

“George Walter? Do you hear those wolves? You brought me here to the middle of nowhere and we’ll be eaten by wolves before the morning.” Effie might have said, straining to see in the darkness.

“I’m here, Effie.” George Walter Venn might have answered, raising his gun to the air to shoot, intending to scare the wolves back from the wagon. “I’ll send them away, stay low.”

The riffle would fire into the night and the wolves would leave. Effie, with the help of her loving, attentive husband would step over the railing, come down the wheel from the wagon, and safely walk into the home he’d provided. With the wooden door closed against the beasts of the night, Effie probably curled beside him on the feather tic to sleep the rest of the night away.

“It’s a magnificent morning!” I can hear grandpa opening the door to the early morning dawn. “There’s snow on the prairie and deer in the front yard. This is a lovely place to live.” His announcement probably brought most of the eleven children from their beds to see snow on the prairie. “April Fools!” His announcement rang for nearly sixty years, every April First grandma remembered.

While I may not even agree with grandpa’s proclaimation about mornings on the prairie, there’s one thing I do agree with, ever day of my life…

“It’s a magnificent morning!”

Writer Biographies – Who are you, anyway?

When writers try to figure out what to write in their bios, they often stumble around in the dark for a bit. There’s a lot of room in life that doesn’t really fit on that dash between the date of your birth and the date of your death, but how much of it do you really want anyone to know?

My own biography started out simply enough, way back in the beginning, until I realized that I was including too much. So, I edited.

I marked out so much of my life that I felt as if I didn’t really matter too much. The biggest parts that I’d marked out, to begin with, were my educational endeavors. Who cared about my degree in Philosophy? That degree certainly didn’t take me anywhere worth going. I’m sure it influenced my life, but how much can Socrates say about your life in 1978? Ahem. Delete! The next step was to take out my hopes and dreams. They’re important, but not as part of my biography. People want to know what I’ve done, not what I’m gonna do.

The next step was to look at the family portion of my bio. Quite honestly, that which happens through an accident of genetics probably isn’t of monumental importance, and my DNA doesn’t need to be shared with the multitudes. The genealogy that describes whose gone before me, may have been important if it had been someone of valuable importance, or of documented history. But, my ancestors, as special as each of them are, haven’t made any major historical efforts of substance.

My experience of life could be summed up in a trite phrase concluding more than three decades of writing. That ought to impact the neighborhood with a frenzy of activity and celebration… or not! Where I come from is so easy to find, we call it the Heart of America and there’s a little red heart on the map in the middle of the United States, referring to our location at the Crossroads of America. Impressive, only if you’re driving by, and even then, if  you blink you miss it.

My accomplishments on the other hand are so great that even I was impressed by their weight, in rheems of paper and ink. At least, until I noticed they don’t measure up much compared to the accomplishments of others. My books have won no Pulitzers, and any awards I’ve earned lack noteworthiness in the big light of life, so I deleted most of those piles of paper too.

What was left?

Jan Verhoeff, a writer from southeastern Colorado, the mother of four wonderful children, who loves to write for others.

Simple, to the point, direct, and not too badly over stated!