One of the five or six biggest book fairs in the world is the Tucson Festival of Books, which attracts 100,000 visitors over a single weekend in March. The festival, held on the beautiful campus of the University of Arizona, is FREE. For a third year in a row, the New Mexico Book Association will have a booth on the campus mall, displaying member author books. Last year, someone who visited the NMBA booth told me she had presented her book in the Indie Author Pavilion. You might ask, what is an Indie author? An Indie author is someone whose book is published by an independent (or “indie”) publisher that is not part of a large corporation or conglomerate, like the Big Five publishing houses: Penguin/Random House, Hachette Book Group, Harper Collins, Simon and Schuster, and Macmillan. “Keep your eye on the festival website for an announcement asking indie authors to submit their books for consideration,” she said. I did. And in October I submitted Banged-Up Heart. If the festival had a panel on grief and resilience, I thought I might have a chance to participate. Later, an author friend who lives in Tucson told me, “The Festival likes recently published books.” I swallowed my disappointment, as Banged-Up Heart would be seven years old in 2024. In December, I received a “thank you for submitting your book” followed by “we had a fantastic response from indie authors with over 175 books submitted for review. With so many books, our team had to make some very hard choices regarding the authors to invite to represent Indie Authors at the 2024 Tucson Festival of Books.” I thought they were letting me down gently and was not prepared to read at the end of the second paragraph: “Congratulations, your book has been selected to participate in the Festival.” I will be hosted in the Indie Author Pavilion for Adult Fiction and Nonfiction on Sunday, March 10th for three hours, 1:30 – 4:30 p.m. One of twenty authors showcasing our books, I look forward to discussing my memoir with anyone who’s interested. Of course, I’ll have copies to sign. If you plan to be in Tucson for the Festival, be sure to look for me. To find me listed in the Festival program, Google 2024 Tucson festival of Books, click on Authors and then click Indie Authors. I’m in the middle of the pack. Before my stint in the Indie Pavilion on March 10th, I’ll be in the NMBA booth on Saturday, March 9th, and Sunday morning. Praise for Banged-Up Heart: Melis’ stirring story is beautifully told, both philosophically reflective and emotionally poignant. Her account is also remarkably candid. Despite the heartbreaking losses she endured, she manages to produce a life-affirming memoir detailing personal triumph. -Kirkus Reviews An intimate look at the power of love, filled with honesty and passion. Banged-Up Heart is the best memoir I’ve read this year. Bravo. -Anne Hillerman, New York Times best-selling author of The Way of the Bear and soon-to-be-released Lost Birds Shirley Melis tells a love story filled with joy, heartache, and shocking honesty that makes Banged-Up Heart a page-turner. -Sally Armstrong, author of Uprising: A New Age is Dawning for Every Mother’s Daughter Banged-Up Heart invites us into an intimate, compelling story of deep love, one found unexpectedly after a painful time of raw widowhood. In meticulous detail, Shirley Melis crafts an uplifting testament to her own persisting determination in the face of devastating tragedy. Her courage to open herself again despite this confrontation with double loss is a shining example of human resilience at its most transcendent. -Barclay Braden, PhD, psychologist, and author of Faith at Hand: Finding My Way to Depth Journaling In Banged-Up Heart, Shirley Melis lays bare the heartbreak of being widowed twice in four years. But that’s just the start. Her candor and insights, delivered in crisp, unsentimental prose, will pull you into this inspiring account of love, loss, and resilience. -Patricia Galagan, fine-art photographer, writer, and author of Fire Ghosts
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On the morning of January 21st, I woke up to a dusting of snow and held my breath. With an overcast sky and outside temperatures in the low 30’s, the New Mexico Book Association’s afternoon Winter Fiesta might be a Winter Disasta! By late afternoon, the weather was holding as we welcomed close to fifty celebrants to the NMBA’s Winter Fiesta and 30th anniversary at The Club at Las Campanas in Santa Fe. A Brief History Thirty years ago, a small group of publishers banded together to form the NMBA for the purpose of discussing publishing issues. Their mission: “To preserve and perpetuate the BOOK as a repository of the wisdom of the past, the essence of the present, and a guide to the future.” Reflecting the mission was the logo: a symbol of the sun with its horizontal rays opening like the pages of a book. Thirty years later, the mission and logo remain intact but membership has undergone a dramatic change. After its founding, the NMBA became a pioneer among statewide publishing groups by opening is membership to all individuals, businesses, and institutions professionally involved with books: writers, editors, proofreaders, book coaches, illustrators, literary agents, designers, narrators, publicists, marketer, journalists, reviewers, librarians, and, of course, publishers. Today, the NMBA is the only statewide nonprofit that serves all book professionals, and we are one of the country’s most active book associations. Since January a year ago, our membership has grown by a whopping 74 new members! Together with those who have been with us for many years, NMBA members hail from 31 cities and towns in New Mexico and ten other states. What We Do Throughout the year, the NMBA offers workshops by experts on topics that members want to know more about. The most popular last year addressed the impact of artificial intelligence on the creative writer. Book sales and events showcase member author books at a variety of sites, including the Tucson Festival of Books in March, which attracts one hundred thousand visitors over a single weekend. Honoring books is the NMBA’s one-of-kind competition, the Southwest Book Design and Production Awards. Open to authors from eight states, SWBDA celebrates winners at the NMBA Summer Gala. Certificate of Appreciation In the midst of Winter Fiesta, the NMBA Board surprised Treasurer Paula Lozar with a Certificate of Appreciation, acknowledging her many years of service to the organization. Paula joined the Board as a member-at-large in 2008 and never left, serving in every office of the Board. Each Whereas in the Resolution of Appreciation celebrated a facet of Paula’s exemplary service, including this one: Whereas, whenever the Board is unsure of any important fact or proposed initiative, they simply as Paula Lozar and she graciously tells the Board what to do. Richard Harris Award The Richard Harris Award was founded in 2012 to honor the memory of the late NMBA president, Richard Harris, who died in 2011 at the age of sixty-four, having written more than 250 books. He was widely considered the preeminent author of guides to the American Southwest and Mexico. People who were privileged to know Richard Harris say he was an immensely talented writer who loved books and everything about them. Equally at home designing books and discussing copyright questions, he lectured widely at writing and publishing conferences The NMBA presents the Richard Harris Award annually to the author of a book whose excellence in writing, editing, design, production and lasting influence in New Mexico exemplifies the ideals of publishing to which Richard Harris devoted his writing career. On Sunday, it gave me great pleasure to announce the 2023 Richard Harris Award, a beautiful book of poetry and stories entitled Sánii Dahataał The Women Are Singing by Luci Tapahonso, inaugural Poet Laureate of the Navajo Nation. In her book, Luci shares memories of her home in Shiprock, New Mexico, and of the places and people there. Through these celebrations of birth, partings and reunions, she displays her love of the Navajo world and her resonant use of language while inviting the reader into her culture of familial warmth and support through stories that keep the past alive. It was only after Luci won the 2023 Richard Harris Award that we asked her to be our keynote speaker and when she agreed, we were thrilled. Luci’s journey is remarkable. Born on the Navajo reservation in Shiprock, New Mexico, she learned English as a second language after her native Navajo. After graduating from Shiprock High School, she began her studies at the University of New Mexico where she intended to study journalism and become an investigative report. Today Luci is University of New Mexico professor emerita of English Literature. She has published three children’s books and six award-winning books of poetry and taught at the universities of Kansas, Arizona, and New Mexico. After I presented Professor Tapahonso with the Richard Harris Award, Luci read from her many books, moving the audience to tears. It was a Winter Fiesta I will long remember. Ancient Babylonians – the first people to make New Year’s resolutions some 4,000 years ago – made promises to their pagan gods to pay their debts and return any objects they had borrowed. For them the new year began in mid-March, crop planting time.
In Rome, emperor Julius Caesar established January 1 as the beginning of the new year (46 B.C.), and Romans promised the deity Janus good conduct in the coming year. For early Christians, the first day of the new year became the traditional time of looking back at one’s mistakes and resolving to do better in the future. Today, despite religious roots, New Year’s resolutions are notably secular. Generally, we don’t make promises to gods. We make promises to ourselves with a focus on self-improvement. How successful are we in fulfilling our promises? Researchers report that while as many as 45% of Americans say they usually make New Year’s resolutions, only 8% are successful! Hoping to beat these dismal odds, here are my resolutions for 2024:
Note: Information about the history of New Year’s resolutions came from writer Sarah Pruitt’s online gem of an essay. It’s holiday time. I love this time of year – the lights on the Plaza in downtown Santa Fe, rooftop luminarias, the hum of excitement and getting together with friends. December is the month when I focus on my favorite charities and give what I can. Here are some of my favorites:
Arts Santa Fe Symphony and Chorus offers Santa Feans live classical music played and sung by top-notch musicians. This organization has a special place in my heart, in part because my husband, Frank, served as President of the Board (2017 – 2020) and as Interim Executive Director for nine months. I love the fact that music education is all-important to the organization. Members of the Symphony mentor aspiring musicians in Santa Fe public schools. And at least once a year, fourth graders fill the Lensic Theater in downtown Santa Fe for a free Symphony performance of Sergei Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf narrated in Spanish and English by author and storyteller Joe Hayes. Santa Fe Youth Symphony inspires young people throughout Northern New Mexico’s multicultural communities through music education guided by professionals and opportunities to perform. Humanitarian Doctors Without Borders is at the top of my list, especially during these days and weeks of endless war-related heartbreak. I also give to the Food Depot, the no-cost, healthful food bank for nearly 40,000 New Mexicans in nine counties in Northern New Mexico. Education Reading is Fundamental inspires the joy of reading in young children, sparking imagination and possibilities. As an avid watcher and listener of PBS, I support New Mexico PBS. And for the past two years, since it began, the Santa Fe International Literary Festival is on my must-support list. Animals The Animal Protection Society of Chapel Hill, NC, founded by my late husband Joe Nagelschmidt has evolved into Paws4Ever in Methane, NC. My donation carries a request to focus on adoption. I also support the Santa Fe Animal Shelter and with a caring eye on animals in the wild, I support the World Wildlife Fund. These are just a few of my favorite charities. Please share yours with me. One look at Tira Howard’s website and I was hooked. Urged by my publicist Mari to “refresh” my seven-year-old website with new photos by Tira, I shot off an email requesting a photo op in September and asked how long it might take.
“September 20th would be great! For authors in the past we would shoot for around 2 hours,” Tira responded. “What time?” I asked. “I’ll arrive close to sunset. That’s the best time to shoot, when we have Santa Fe’s dreamy afternoon light.” I liked the idea of being photographed at home rather than in a studio. At home is where I feel most comfortable and relaxed. I jotted the appointment in my calendar and forgot about it – it was more than a month out. Two days before my date with Tira, I was on Zoom with Mari, who lives in Spain. “Are you ready for your photo op?” she asked before our meeting ended. “Yes, but I have one burning question.” “What’s that?” “What about makeup?” “Have you discussed makeup with Tira?” “No, I thought she might bring someone to do makeup.” “No, it’s separate, Shirley. I have three names I’ll try to contact but I’m afraid you won’t be able to get anyone at the last minute.” “Yikes! If I have to do my own, do you have any advice for me?” “Yes, put on your usual makeup but add more on your cheeks and eyes. I think you’ll be just fine.” The afternoon of the scheduled shoot, the weather turned cloudy. In an email, Tira offered to re-schedule. I didn’t mind. I told her I was still trying to figure out what to wear! We settled on a date three days later when sun was forecast for the entire day. In response to my clothing quandary, Tira offered this advice: “Solid and neutral (black, white, khaki, olive, navy, cream, gray) colors are the easiest for graphic designers to work with unless you have already figured out design colors and would like to coordinate.” It was nearly 5 p.m. when, after brushing extra color onto my cheeks, I opened the front door to greet Tira. Taller than I’d expected, with dark hair to her shoulders, she wore a dark blue, shirred waist dress and black flats. No camera in hand. She flashed a smile that made me feel she was a friend or at the very least, someone I would like to get to know. Minutes before Tira arrived, I’d covered the back of our cream-colored sofa with a variety of neutral tops and a few scarves to go with black pants. On the nearby bar I’d stacked a small pile of necklaces and earrings. “What do you think?” I asked Tira, pointing toward the sofa. “I think you might wear all of them.” She looked at me and smiled. “We’ll have plenty of time for you to change.” I gave Tira a quick tour of the house, pointing out my office with my favorite red leather chair where I often write and the library. But it was outside where she wanted to start shooting. “There are so many possibilities!” Tira said, standing on the flagstone patio and taking in the view. “In front of the maple tree, out beyond your patio wall, on your portal with that fabulous sculpture on the wall, and in front of your house against the russet stucco. The natural light is perfect! Let me grab my camera and I’ll be right back.” Little more than an hour and several changes of tops and jewelry later, I took a seat in the library for the only indoor shot Tira took. A couple of weeks later, I received a link to Tira’s favorite photos taken during our photo op. Here are a few of them. Which ones do you like? How do you celebrate a big birthday in late October? “Keep it simple,” Frank said. With that, an unexpected invitation set our course. “Why don’t you celebrate your birthday with us here on Shelter Island?” Karla, who was on the phone with Frank, is the partner of Frank’s oldest friend, Jim. They (Jim and Frank) have known each other since second grade at the Lab School, University of Chicago. “Your grandson and his fiancée, who live in Manhattan, are welcome to join us and spend the night,” Karla added. When Frank mentioned the invite, sparks flashed in my brain. I thought of friends and relatives who call Manhattan home. We hadn’t seen them since the pandemic. In Sunday’s NYT, I’d just read about the Manet/Degas exhibition in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and who knew what surprises the Museum of Modern Art might hold. A lush multi-colored carpet of leaves covered our Santa Fe patio when we flew east to New York to celebrate Frank’s 92nd birthday. Landing at La Guardia, we snagged a yellow cab to East 66 th Street where we hunkered down in my author goddaughter Gitty Daneshvari's condo for three nights before catching the Hampton Jitney to Shelter Island. (She’s sold over 5 million copies of her 3-book School of Fear series, ages 9-12 years, worldwide!) Manhattan Highlights:The weather couldn’t have been better: sunny skies, crisp cool air, blooming white and fuchsia cyclamen beneath tall trees. Late one morning, fueled by chocolate croissants and cups of cappuccino, we walked to the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) where Unsupervised, a huge floor-to-ceiling digital artwork erupted before our eyes. What would a machine dream of after seeing the collection of the Museum of Modern Art? The artist, Refik Anadol, used Artificial Intelligence to interpret and transform more than 200 years of art in MoMA. Other works that caught my eye: The Lovers by René Magritte and Henri Matisse’s famous and beloved Dance (I). Unsupervised, a digital artwork by Refik Anatolia Evening highlight: a heart-warming visit with my sister- and brother-in-law, Kerry and Dick Bessey, plus a bonus: margaritas made by Dick with fresh-squeezed lime and sublime tequila, the best margarita(s) I’ve ever tasted. (Know that in New Mexico, I’ve tasted a lot of margaritas!) Wednesday morning we met my college classmate Alice Harper for a tasty brunch of baked eggs at Le Pain Quotidien before trekking together to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Alice, who volunteers at the museum, had offered to give us a private tour of the Manet/Degas exhibition when the museum is closed (on Wednesdays) to the public. Entering via a special entrance, we followed Alice through security and into an elevator that took us to the exhibition floor. Stepping out of the elevator, I was struck by the feeling that I had magically landed in a great, grand mansion filled with art. The stillness was deafening; the absence of crowds jostling for viewing position, palpable. Approaching the exhibition, we walked through a hall filled with sculptures by Rodin. The Hand of God in white marble took my breath away as did Rodin’s erotic Eternal Spring. Alice led us to a painting by Manet outside the featured exhibition: Mademoiselle V . . . in the Costume of an Espada. Depicting a matador, Manet’s female model flourishes a non-matador pink cape. Well into the exhibition, I discovered the same model in Manet’s The Spanish Singer and again, in his famed Le dejeuner sur l’herbe and Olympia. I was mystified by Degas’s painting of Monsieur and Madame Manet until I read that for reasons unknown, Manet slashed the right-hand side of the canvas showing his wife’s profile. That part of the canvas is empty, covered with what appears to be brown paper.
Shelter Island:The Hampton Jitney dropped us in Greenport where we caught a ten-minute ferry ride to Shelter Island. Near the eastern end of Long Island and accessible only by ferry. Shelter Island boasts a non-summer population of some 3,000 (15,000 during the summer). Compared with the sometimes frenetic energy of Manhattan, Shelter Island is an unspoiled gem of tranquility. Vast parts of the island are protected wetlands. In fact, The Nature Conservancy owns at least a third of the island to be protected in its wild state. Frank’s longtime friend, Jim Webster, a retired medical doctor who specialized in internal medicine and geriatrics while affiliated with Northwestern University Medical School and Northwestern Memorial Hospital, celebrated his 92nd birthday a few weeks before Frank’s. Seeing Frank and Jim together, I marveled that these two are just a few years short of being one century old! They are accomplished, each with a unique history and a generous heart. When I married Frank twelve years ago, I didn’t think of him as old. And I still don’t. I admit that too often I take his good health for granted but when we decided to marry, Frank promised that he would play golf until he was a hundred!
Saturday morning found us shopping at the local organic farm market for another birthday dinner , this one with grandson William. That afternoon, when William arrived with his fiancée Laynie, Jim offered William the key to Ruby and off we (Frank, William, Laynie and I) went, driving from one end of the island to the other. Racing along the roadway, William came to a sudden stop. In front of us, moving ever so slowly, was a large snapping turtle. We got out of the car and, stopping traffic, persuaded the turtle to turn around and head back into the swamp grass from which he’d come. The next day Frank and I flew back to New Mexico, having notched another significant birthday in Frank’s run toward 100.
Last month (August 23), authors, book designers and illustrators, publishers and avid readers gathered for the annual New Mexico Book Association’s Summer Gala. Thrilled by our record attendance (70) and energized by our program, I served as emcee, sharing the mic with Co-President Miguel De La Cruz and other members of the board. On the portal of Las Campanas in Santa Fe, acclaimed guitarist and singer Nacha Mendez performed for NMBA members and friends. Mendez, voted Best Female Vocalist in Santa Fe in 2009 and 2010, received the New Mexico Lifetime Achievement Award in 2018.
Weaving stories about being a robber gang’s lookout, stumbling upon a nine-bedroom house of his dreams that he would one day own, and taking teenagers from east LA into the hallowed library of Stanford University, Baca shared significant parts of his life and writing with Gala attendees.
Looking for lunch, we were directed to a filling station for fish and chips. Without beer on the menu, we kept walking until we found a Gallery-Café that served beer but no food. Heeding the gallery manager’s suggestion, we checked out a nearby food truck specializing in –you guessed it – fish & chips. Carrying our baskets of food, we returned to the gallery. With cans of cold beer in hand, we plunked ourselves down at a table in the midst of photographs and paintings by Icelandic artists. Regrettably, my iPhone battery had run down so I have no photos of our afternoon exploration of Seydisfjordur. Early the morning of July 4th, we were docked in Husavik where we were met with rain and bone-chilling winds. Because my Whales and Puffins excursion had been cancelled, I thought I might join Frank on his “Hidden Gems of the North” excursion but it was booked solid with a waiting list. So, I boarded a bus to the Husavik Geothermal Sea Baths. For nearly two hours, my head whipped by unrelenting winds, I submerged the rest of myself in the warm (100 degrees Fahrenheit) mineral-rich waters of multiple infinity pools along the edge of a cliff. On a clear day one might have taken in breathtaking views of Skjalfandi Bay below us or spotted a passing whaling boat, maybe even a whale, but visibility was almost non-existent beyond the rim of the pools. Winds lifted the waters of an adjacent waterfall up into the thermal baths. My face felt as though it was being pummeled by hundreds of tiny ice spikes. I returned to the ship in time to meet Frank for lunch before he left for his excursion in the rain. On the morning of Wednesday, July 5th, we were docked in Akureyri where we disembarked for an eight-hour excursion. Our guide, Juli, humorously entertained our minivan of fifteen while he drove us through idyllic green pastures midst dark volcanic rock. Our destination was Iceland’s fourth largest body of water, Lake Myvatn, known as the lake of black flies. Fortunately, we didn’t see any except in an iPhone photo of Juli’s face covered with flies. Known as “midges,” they usually appear in mid-June in such amazing numbers that they block out views of nearby scenic mountains. En route we stopped at breathtaking Godafoss Waterfall (Waterfall of the Gods). The story goes that in 998 AD, Thorgeir, a Viking priest pressured by Norway to give up his heathen beliefs, threw his pagan idols into the waters to symbolize that Iceland would embrace Christianity. These beautiful falls, in the shape of a horseshoe 98 feet wide, were a fractional reminder of Iguazu Falls in Brazil, an elongated horseshoe that extends for nearly two miles. Not far from Lake Myvatn, we stopped to check out Skutustadagigar pseudocraters that were formed 2300 years ago. Walking through the bizarre and often grotesque formations, I couldn’t resist taking photos of those that reminded me of humans. At a stop for lunch, we ate, at Juli’s suggestion, dark brown bread slathered in butter, topped by smoked trout – delicious! Afterwards Juli drove us to Námafjall, an area of swirling geothermal activity that smells of sulfur and features smoking fumaroles and boiling mud. From a distance it looked like a vast desert or a burned out Serengeti.
On Friday, July 7th, we boarded a bus in Isafjordur to ascend 2100 feet to the top of Bolafjall Mountain. Along the way we went through the eleven-mile-long Mt. Oshlid tunnel. It took a while as oncoming traffic had the right of way, forcing us into numerous turnouts. From the mountain top we had spectacular panoramic views – miles of remote, unspoiled nature and home to arctic foxes (the only land mammal native to Iceland) but we saw not one fox nor, when we looked out to sea, did we glimpse the coast of Greenland. At departure time, four in our group were missing. Our guide became increasingly concerned, fearing someone might have fallen off the mountain. Eventually, the missing were found.
On Saturday, July 8th, we docked in Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland. It was not my first time in Reykjavik. Years ago, I flew Icelandic Air to and from Europe, and a fuel stop in Reykjavik was a must. However, not once on those flights did I ever get off the plane. And now because we had signed up for a five-hour excursion outside the city, I wondered whether we would see anything of Reykjavik. Our guide, so very different from the guides we’d had all along, shared little information about himself, Icelandic ways or the moss-covered lavascapes we were seeing. Our destination was Reykjanes GeoPark, a UNESCO Global Geopark. Our first stop was Lake Kleifarvatn, a 318-foot deep crater lake with a beach of black sand, far different from tree-lined Crater Lake in southwestern Oregon, which is much deeper and bluer.
After returning to the ship, we decided to try to see something of the city. A port shuttle delivered us to city center, too late for the on-off bus tour. So, we walked to a pedestrian-filled street lined with shops, including a crowded book store, and took in the scene: more people than we’d seen all week – young people, many with tattoos. At Frank’s behest, we checked out some impressive architecture on our walk back to catch the port shuttle. The lecturer aboard ship had mentioned several of the buildings we stopped to admire. We had hoped we to eat dinner in Reykjavik our last night together with Susie but the logistics proved daunting. We ended up eating together on the ship after which we rushed to pack and get our bags outside our staterooms for pickup by 11 p.m. Throwing dirty clothes into suitcases, we zipped ‘em closed within minutes of the pickup deadline. In the morning, we flew to Amsterdam, missing a volcanic eruption near Reykjavik by four hours.
Miscellaneous memories and impressions of Iceland:
Under an overcast sky in late June, we left The Hendrick’s Hotel in an Uber and headed for the Port of Amsterdam to board the Azamara Journey that would take us to Iceland. Without the aggravating Covid protocols we had endured when traveling in Europe a year-an-a-half earlier, check-in was easy. Frank’s stepsister Susie and I signed up for a massage on each of the two days we knew we’d be at sea with no ports of call.
Exploring a small museum in Scalloway, we discovered a display that chronicles the heroic “Shetland Bus” missions into Nazi-occupied Norway during WWII. Initially, a group of small fishing boats disguised as working fishing boats were armed with light machine guns concealed in oil drums placed on deck to carry out missions on the Norwegian coast. Several fishing boats were lost before the fleet was augmented by three well-armed submarine chasers. At the end of our tour we learned that our guide, Margaret Anderson, is the author of children’s books. From one of her books, she stood up in the front of the bus and read a poem, captivating us with her wonderful Scottish brogue. That night we enjoyed a late dinner aboard ship and compared notes with Susie who had opted for a different excursion. After the previous evening of vodka tonics, I opted for a pre-dinner Aperol spritzer and a glass of wine with dinner. We caught the last of the ship’s late-evening entertainer, singer Grace Clancy, and headed for bed.
Speaking of mountains, we made our way past the highest mountain in the Faroe Islands, Slaettaratindur (2,890 ft.), via multiple hairpin turns on a narrow two-way road before we arrived in the town of Gjógv. Walking through the town, we saw no one. I could only think that in this cold, wet weather, only crazy, curious tourists were out and about. Sod-roofed houses were a common sight. “In the Shetland Islands,” we were told, “they don’t mow the roofs but in the Faroe Islands, we do.” We stopped at a local guesthouse for a snack. Under dark wooden rafters, a long wooden table displayed trays of yummy eclairs and pots of hot coffee and tea but not one local did I see.
Interspersing passages from my memoir with narrative, I concluded with the scene when I boarded the plane in Albuquerque to fly back to Reston, Virginia, to find John, who has become seriously ill, in the aisle, unable to get out of a narrow wheelchair into his first-class seat. When the flight attendant, incensed because he has not been able to load the plane because John is in the aisle, barks, “Lady, I suggest you and your husband take another flight.” I respond with, “We have to go to Dulles. We’re not getting off this plane!”
The questions and discussion that followed my reading were straight-forward. I was asked if I were writing my story now, would I change it in any way. I said that I might have been more reflective, more critical of myself for not delving into John’s diagnosis to better understand it. I see now that John didn’t level with me about its seriousness. At the same time, I feel that understand why he could not. My second memoir is another slice of my life, when I was in my 20s and 30s. It was triggered by my opening a trunk filled with letters, journals and memories much like ghosts that had haunted me for a long time. |
Author BLOG
I'm Shirley Melis. You may know me as Shirley M. Nagelschmidt, Shirley M. Bessey and now, Shirley M. Hirsch. Each reflects a particular phase of my life. Banged-Up Heart is a slice of my life's journey and in telling my story, I'm giving voice to my long silent "M" by reclaiming my maiden name, Shirley Melis. Archives
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