tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1247808692285365272024-03-05T06:22:25.387-08:00Nebraska NotionBrigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-77295995824446697822017-11-09T06:51:00.001-08:002017-11-09T06:51:03.957-08:00Journey of a Bookseller: West from the Cradle by Brigid Amos<a href="http://bkfaerie.blogspot.com/2017/11/west-from-cradle-by-brigid-amos.html?spref=bl">Journey of a Bookseller: West from the Cradle by Brigid Amos</a>: Gold fever is a disease. When men hear of a discovery, their imaginations run wild and they will pick up and leave where they are to go m...Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-57733447000782086932017-07-25T08:06:00.000-07:002017-07-25T08:06:09.356-07:00Writing to a Theme<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9zMRz6IV9zS0BKo4cTs20RoYpCUtHKBcrOYZUPejgg1c4dBuuZnxzUA5cG1-05FZbeGKFOX0rlbxJIH1lefkFPypWrAY9aDN-ht3HoMdIIAotOTHFScQTuRRmyHjdnoQQcvtIP3vB9k9H/s1600/Rehearsal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1600" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9zMRz6IV9zS0BKo4cTs20RoYpCUtHKBcrOYZUPejgg1c4dBuuZnxzUA5cG1-05FZbeGKFOX0rlbxJIH1lefkFPypWrAY9aDN-ht3HoMdIIAotOTHFScQTuRRmyHjdnoQQcvtIP3vB9k9H/s640/Rehearsal.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">An early rehearsal of "Our Daughter Katie." <br />From left to right: Actors Christie Emler and Mark Mesarch, Director Trey Martinez, and actor Eleanor Schmeichel.<br /> Not pictured: Actor Alaina Conner.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For a writer, a prompt or specific theme can feel
like a nice springy board from which to launch into a short story, poem, or
play. Sometimes, those prompted quick-writes transform over time into novels,
poetry collections, and full length plays. If they do nothing more than sit, an
incoherent mess, in a dusty of notebook in the writer’s basement, no matter.
All writing is worthwhile to a writer in the same way that all exercise is to
an athlete, or the practicing of scales is to a musician. It’s what we do in
order to do what we do, if that makes sense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve met a lot of writing prompts in my journey as a
writer, in classes, workshops, and the like. Usually, I attack them with gusto
head on. I fear no writing prompt, and never met a one that could stump me.
Until this past year, that is, when the Lincoln Theatre Alliance chose family
as the theme of this year’s theatre season. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It wasn’t that I didn’t like the theme of family. I
love family. I have one myself. In fact, every play I’ve ever written, as well
as both of my novels, involve family in and integral and indispensable way. I
realized that no matter what I write, in some way, I am writing about family.
But when Judy Hart, director of Angels Theatre Company, presented the theme of
family to us members of Angels Playwriting Collective and requested that we
write family-themed plays for the 2017 First Flight Festival, for me, the theme
of family turned into the insurmountable wall called FAMILY!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By December of 2016, I was beginning to believe that
I would have no play to submit to First Flight 2017. But in early December, my
husband and I went down to Mission, Kansas to see a production of my ten minute
play “Bernice’s Birthday.” (Those of you who attended First Flight last year
may remember the production with Cecilia and John Burkhart, directed by Jan
Bretz.) After the show, Bob and I were discussing and dissecting the other
plays we had seen. One of the plays involved a man sitting on a park bench when
a stranger walks up to him and pretends to be an old teammate from his high school
football team. The first man pretends to remember the stranger, and in the end,
the stranger poisons him with a cigarette. Analyzing that play got me to
thinking. What if you upped the ante there? Instead of a stranger claiming to
be an old friend, it’s a stranger claiming to be a family member? What if this
stranger appeared, not on a park bench, but in your own house? And what if
there were a real and corresponding family member still at home, and you had to
choose between them? Now the play takes a turn for the surreal of course, but
you can see how the stakes are upped in each case. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So I had my family play at last. I sat down in a cafe
with my notebook and wrote it in one sitting. But don’t think with a play that
that’s that. That is not that! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A Play is not like fiction. People read fiction, in
the comfort of their homes, beaches, cafes etc. It has to be well-written,
edited, rewritten, and on and on so that it’s good and they will like it, and
not leave nasty reviews on Amazon. A play is different. It’s more like a
structure that people climb all over and sometimes jump up and down on, and it
has to be strong to hold up under all that abuse. This is where Angels
Playwriting Collective and Angels Theatre Company’s First Fight Festival comes
in. The process makes plays strong, so that when the director starts to work
with actors in rehearsal, and ultimately, those actors walk out onto a stage
and perform, the whole structure doesn’t collapse into a pile of debris and
dust before the eager eyes of an audience. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This is my third time through this process, and as
always, I am coming through it a better playwright. At our first table read of “Our
Daughter Katie,” I received invaluable input that helped me to shape the play
in such a way that the action and characters would be clear to an audience.
After that first read through, I thought a lot about what I heard, and one
night when I couldn’t sleep, I got up at 2:00 am and rewrote the play.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I attended three subsequent rehearsals of the play.
At the first two, I was fascinated by the way the director, Trey Martinez,
encouraged the actors to discover for themselves their own characters’ inner
lives and impulses, and to surrender themselves to the unreal and unlikely plot
elements. The third rehearsal I attended was the tech rehearsal. At that rehearsal,
I felt completely jazzed up to see Trey’s inventive staging and direction. The
commitment and playfulness of the actors, their presence in the moment, was a
joy to watch. I cannot express enough my gratitude to Trey, and to actors Mark
Mesarch, Christie Emler, Alaina Conner and Eleanor Schmeichel. And to my
esteemed fellow playwrights of Angels Playwriting Collective, to producer Judy
Hart and Angels Theatre Company, you keep me writing plays, and for that, I
thank you!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-36113051767417867002016-11-28T17:37:00.001-08:002016-11-28T18:13:49.741-08:00Delbert's Weir<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Nebraska Notion is taking a trip to Northwest Washington to join fellow Women Writing the West author Carmen Peone and learn about her young adult novel <i>Delbert's Weir!</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;"><i style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></i>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>Carmen will give away an e-book copy of Delbert's Weir for Kindle to a lucky person who leaves a comment at the end of this blog post. So read on and leave a comment!</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP256mVK1EcXwGLTXj4tyyO4z48f7xXDlLVFpqZXMkNc-nmGZQi9bHcAayvhemI5e9fMG_W0ON589mtHmDvqM7tL2GzVreK2dumORCO6VRCPE5m7fj_D7QaYZaN60GljEZO44e7yT3oP0N/s1600/Delbert+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP256mVK1EcXwGLTXj4tyyO4z48f7xXDlLVFpqZXMkNc-nmGZQi9bHcAayvhemI5e9fMG_W0ON589mtHmDvqM7tL2GzVreK2dumORCO6VRCPE5m7fj_D7QaYZaN60GljEZO44e7yT3oP0N/s320/Delbert+Cover.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Let's find out what <i>Delbert's Weir</i> is about!</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In a time when the
west was still untamed, sixteen-year-old Delbert Gardner leads two friends into
the backcountry for a three day adventure. Little did they know three days of
hunting and fishing would turn into eight days of near starvation, injury and illness.
When hope of returning home seems out of reach, Delbert recalls watching his
Native American friends construct a fishing weir and sets out to build one
himself. To him, it is the only way out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Let's read an excerpt from the book!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He watched the leaves
of the quaking aspen ripple in the breeze as if to encourage him. “Get up. Keep
going,” is what they seemed to say. His mind flashed images of him watching
Pekam. He and some other men walked up a stream and pushed fish toward traps.
The same traps he’d made.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Delbert jumped to his
feet and sprinted to camp. He shook each tent, even his own in the wake of
excitement and yelled, “Get up!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Jed popped his head
out first, a grumpy frown on his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Ross attempted to open
his blinking eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Come on. Get dressed.
Daylights a burnin’. We’ve got work to do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Ross rolled over on
his back and groaned. “What’re you babbling about?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“The traps are empty,
but I have a plan.” Delbert shook the tents until the boys crawled out. “Pekam
spoke to me. No, God did, through Pekam.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Jed’s sleepy eyes strained
to focus. “What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“This better be worth
it,” Ross sneered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“I was sure there
would be fish in at least one of them. But listen, when I was young, I saw
Pekam and his pals walk up a creek toward different types of fish traps filling
‘em pretty fast. I think we should try it. It’s like herding cattle, but with
fish. In water.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Now?” Jed complained.
“Can’t we at least give the horses a drink first?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Delbert turned his
attention to Jed. “When did you start caring about the horses’ well-being?”
Delbert felt hair on the back of his neck spike outward, so he spoke in a calm,
slow tone, “Did you hear me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Yes, I heard you. Did
you hear <i><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">me</span></i>? It’s early. I wanna finish sleepin’.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Sure ya do.” Ross
walked off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Hey, we can water the
horses. Then how ‘bout trying to catch some breakfast. How’d ya like
worms for breakfast? If you’re really fast, maybe you can snatch a
grasshopper or two with a flick of your tongue. I’ll start callin’ ya
frog, or does toad suit ya? Or would ya like to go on a Sunday afternoon
stroll?” Delbert felt his patience leave his body as quickly as his last meal
disappeared from his fish-oiled fingers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Ross glared at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Delbert held out his
hands. “You got a better idea? We’re outta of food. You think it’s gonna
magically drop on our plates, cooked and all?” His tone sounded as impatient as
a hungry wolf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Well, no…” Ross
slouched and rubbed his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Well, let’s get
goin’.” Delbert marched toward the beach. He sat on the cool, damp sand, tore
off his boots, and rolled up his pants. He slid the tip of his toe in and
shivered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Jed grunted and
followed. He sat beside Delbert and peeled off his socks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Ross straggled behind.
He sat a spell before he yanked off his boots and rolled up his pants,
grumbling about the injustice. “Maybe we need to cut off the legs of our
britches. I have a feeling we may be in there–a lot.” He tilted his head toward
the creek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Delbert stared at his
bare feet. <i><span style="border: none windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;">No need to stir those two up any more than
they already are. </span></i>“Okay. Let’s walk downstream a ways, check
things out, and meander back up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Yep.” Ross’s eyebrow
twitched. “Whatever you say, boss.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;">Ross’ll
be eatin’ his words soon enough.</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Buy the Book!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Amazon: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carmen+peone"><span style="border: 1pt none; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none;">http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=carmen+peone</span></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Barns and Noble: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="border: 1pt none; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/carmen+peone?_requestid=709814">http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/carmen+peone?_requestid=709814</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .2in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Connect with Carmen!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Website and
blog: <span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://carmenpeone.com/">http://carmenpeone.com/</a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Goodreads: <span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4862063.Carmen_Peone">http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4862063.Carmen_Peone</a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Facebook: <span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/CarmenEPeone/">https://www.facebook.com/CarmenEPeone/</a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Twitter: <span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><a href="https://twitter.com/carmenpeone">https://twitter.com/carmenpeone</a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">About me: <span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://carmenpeone.com/about/">http://carmenpeone.com/about/</a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Amazon Author
Page: <span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Carmen-Peone/e/B00A92O4R4/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1451363711&sr=8-1">http://www.amazon.com/Carmen-Peone/e/B00A92O4R4/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1451363711&sr=8-1</a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">LinkedIn: <span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=AAIAAAc0cLgBl2D1zC4yDzz9aHb0cyvqDneZFA0&trk=nav_responsive_tab_profile_pic">https://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=AAIAAAc0cLgBl2D1zC4yDzz9aHb0cyvqDneZFA0&trk=nav_responsive_tab_profile_pic</a></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Pinterest: <span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><a href="https://www.pinterest.com/carmenpeone/">https://www.pinterest.com/carmenpeone/</a></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFbasLsYXdzssZuieQMfgfRleA1Wa0O9ubki72de9qiN3ka3JQc12fsxFDB7HBQLq-crs7pHI9WLUuq_hxOWQVrPkanfMKYd11r7ewnWLGt7O4b_1bXE1pKVLxQrF19FkWfhXqHRJY1Ix/s1600/Carmen+Headshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFbasLsYXdzssZuieQMfgfRleA1Wa0O9ubki72de9qiN3ka3JQc12fsxFDB7HBQLq-crs7pHI9WLUuq_hxOWQVrPkanfMKYd11r7ewnWLGt7O4b_1bXE1pKVLxQrF19FkWfhXqHRJY1Ix/s1600/Carmen+Headshot.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>About Carmen Peone:</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Carmen Peone has lived
in Northeast Washington, on the Colville Confederated Indian Reservation since
1988 gleaning knowledge from family and friends. She had worked with
tribal elder, Marguerite Ensminger, for three years learning the Arrow
Lakes-Sinyekst- Language and various cultural traditions and legends. She has
owned and trained her horses for thirteen years and competed in local Extreme
Challenge Competitions for three years. She lives with her husband and
tribal member Joe. They have four grown sons who are also tribal members
and seven grandchildren. With a degree in psychology, the thought of
writing never entered her mind, until she married her husband and they moved to
the reservation after college. She came to love the people and their heritage
and wanted to create a legacy for her sons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-64204519934260081162016-09-14T16:16:00.001-07:002016-09-14T16:16:43.790-07:00Tessa Emily Hall ~ Christ is Write: YA Author Spotlight & Interview: Brigid Amos, Auth...<a href="http://christiswrite.blogspot.com/2016/09/ya-author-spotlight-interview-brigid.html?spref=bl">Tessa Emily Hall ~ Christ is Write: YA Author Spotlight & Interview: Brigid Amos, Auth...</a>: Having a mother with a past is never easy. For Ruthie Conoboy it becomes the struggle of a lifetime in 1900, the year T...Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-52203039448418317502016-09-13T10:56:00.001-07:002016-09-13T10:56:07.194-07:00Kimber Leigh Writes: Researching A Fence Around Her by Brigid Amos<a href="http://www.kimberleighwheaton.com/2016/09/researching-fence-around-her-by-brigid.html?spref=bl">Kimber Leigh Writes: Researching A Fence Around Her by Brigid Amos</a>: Welcome to fellow Clean Reads author, Brigid Amos, with a post about researching her novel, A Fence Around Her! I was on the editing te...Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-5558429783257449152016-08-04T10:02:00.001-07:002016-08-04T10:06:00.841-07:00Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-48200935156251812002016-08-04T10:02:00.000-07:002016-08-05T07:14:11.110-07:00The Sound of Summer<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>(Author's Note: Yes, I have been a negligent blogger, but Nebraska Notion is back! Here is a post that is a year late, but to a Brood IV Cicada, a year is nothing. Enjoy!</i></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hang on!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They say that smell is the most evocative of the
senses. The mere whiff of a scent closely associated with our past can, if only
for a moment, speed us back in time and space faster than any invention H.G.
Wells could have conceived. For me, sound is also such a time hopping vehicle,
often as fast and efficient as smell. An old song comes on the car radio and I
am on summer break from college, driving down a different highway in a
different state, and the song is new and climbing the charts. The cacophony of
children playing during recess at the elementary school on the corner carries
me further back in time, to a blacktop far away, full of children who are now on
the final lap of their careers, playing with their grandchildren, caring for
elderly parents. Some may no longer be alive, a sobering thought. This past
June, I took such a sound-powered journey back to the summers of my childhood
courtesy of the very loud and rather large insect known as the Cicada.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It all started when I opened the Lincoln Journal
Star on May 25<sup>th</sup> 2015 and read an article entitled “Cicadas emerge
after 17-year sleep.” The article said that Brood IV, commonly referred to as
the Kansan brood, was about to emerge for the first time since 1998. I moved to
Nebraska from California in late summer of 1998, which is why I was completely
oblivious to Brood IV. The article explained that some species emerge every
seven, thirteen, and seventeen years. They mate and die in about three weeks.
The females inject their eggs into tree branches, and the baby Cicadas crawl
down into the tree roots where they molt and complete their development. So
this brood will hang out underground until 2032. It is amazing what a species
will do to survive! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bridge in Platte River State Park. Yes, this is Nebraska!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We missed the actual emergence, but saw much
evidence of it. That was fine with me. I was there for the sound. I grew up on
the East Coast in New Jersey and Connecticut. We must have had a lot of yearly
emerging cicadas, because that huge chorus of rapid ticking seems to be the
base track of the soundtrack of my summers. But I wonder if I had witnessed one
of these broods that emerge only once in a while. One of my most vivid memories
of growing up in Madison, Connecticut is of walking down Horse Pond Road
passing a dense thicket of trees and bushes. Apparently, in order to not go completely
insane, I had learned to tune out the cicadas. But suddenly, I became aware of
this wall of sound and turned to stare in wonder into a large bush by the side
of the road. The sound was overwhelming, deafening, like standing under a jet
airplane right before it takes off. How was it that I had tuned out this sound
before?</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hey Mister, is it time to go underground yet?"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So on a warm muggy evening in June, by husband and I
set out for Platte River State Park in Louisville, Nebraska for a “cicada
hike.” Even with the windows closed and the air conditioner on, I could hear
them whenever we passed a clump of trees at the edge of the fields along the
road to the park. And when we parked the car and opened the door, I was back in
a childhood summer, daydreaming to that cicada symphony.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t know where I’ll be in 2032, so I don’t know
if I’ll hear Brood IV again. At the end of our visit, my husband and I decided
that once in a while, we’ll pack a picnic dinner and go hiking at Platte River
State Park, and when we do, it will be nice to know that Brood IV is there,
safe underground.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the end of our visit to Platte River State Park, enjoying an ice cream cone by the lake.</td></tr>
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Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-20819492310574851332015-07-13T17:11:00.000-07:002015-07-13T17:21:34.118-07:00A Playwright's Out of Body Experience<br />
There is magic in the process of taking a play from the page to the stage; for a playwright, this process can feel like an out of body experience.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Timothy Scholl directs actors Cecilia Burkhart and John Burkhart in my ten-minute play Kitchen Garden. </td></tr>
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Back in 2011, my play Kitchen Garden began as a vague idea in my head, which became a conversation with my husband Bob during a long evening walk, and then morphed into a hastily scribbled first draft over a cappuccino in the Mill in College View. It went through various lengths and versions and then lay dormant for four years as nothing more than a computer file. I took a playwriting class, wrote more plays and saw them performed, but always wondered if there was a future for that first play. Then came Angels Playwriting Collective and the First Flight Festival, so I dusted off Kitchen Garden, tightened it into a ten-minute play with the astute feedback from my fellow Collective playwrights, and now am experiencing the magic of watching it make that leap from page to stage.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZijn2QkDw6BsWTMcvPN3mY-P-bIcnO81DAiySjcuh2DRLS6NSjPG6tROKGA-X2r4gjIJQB6oZ8nKf7V7_KeafQn0mEfG0lnKYJe2ybgjKk7a5LKVrwkRy3IyTDQrO2EQ-o6zAp5i5yDU/s1600/Cecilia+and+John+Burkhart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZijn2QkDw6BsWTMcvPN3mY-P-bIcnO81DAiySjcuh2DRLS6NSjPG6tROKGA-X2r4gjIJQB6oZ8nKf7V7_KeafQn0mEfG0lnKYJe2ybgjKk7a5LKVrwkRy3IyTDQrO2EQ-o6zAp5i5yDU/s640/Cecilia+and+John+Burkhart.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cecilia Burkhart and John Burkhart rehearse my ten-minute play Kitchen Garden.</td></tr>
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The out of body experience hits me during rehearsals as I watch my amazing director Timothy Scholl find subtext, character traits, motivations, and conflict that enrich the play so much beyond the written word. In succinct direction to the actors, he can communicate ideas that for me are so internalized that I can only get at them indirectly through dialogue. The actors, Cecilia and John Burkhart, inhabit my characters with a stunning familiarity, as if they were inside the characters’ heads, which translates to inside my head, a bit unnerving when you think about it. So watching a rehearsal of my own play is like watching the contents of my head take shape outside myself. Hopefully, I’ll get used to this strange phenomenon by opening night and be able to enjoy seeing my play on stage just like any other audience member, though I seriously doubt it. If you suspect that someone in the audience is having an out of body experience, that would be me.<br />
<br />
More information about the Angels Theatre Company First Flight Festival at <a href="http://angelscompany.org/">angelscompany.org</a>.<br />
Contact Brigid through her website at <a href="http://brigidamos.com/">brigidamos.com</a>. <br />
<br />
<br />Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-8476365324076020012015-01-21T18:29:00.000-08:002015-01-21T19:00:29.885-08:00Live Theatre in Nebraska City!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTRjkpWlmGjCj_jXg6n_1UFlEql-xKvrCSeVg4ZhyphenhyphentLGOUlfq9xI3-wa9iGFE4CNWPvtQcnWVF_0xQHTuz3lrH0kK8yKTG-yIrgtqb2vtm1713QFIqJhjwFyMvPc5rnGpnrLmQxcC4kE62/s1600/Robin's%2BReading%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTRjkpWlmGjCj_jXg6n_1UFlEql-xKvrCSeVg4ZhyphenhyphentLGOUlfq9xI3-wa9iGFE4CNWPvtQcnWVF_0xQHTuz3lrH0kK8yKTG-yIrgtqb2vtm1713QFIqJhjwFyMvPc5rnGpnrLmQxcC4kE62/s1600/Robin's%2BReading%2B1.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting ready to take a bow. Left to Right: Bob Hall, Brigid Amos, Paula Ray, Robin Buckallew, and Bob Graybosch.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"It's
live theatre!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
waiting audience burst out laughing as the staff continued to fiddle with the
lights in the conference room, at one point plunging it into utter darkness.
The observation came not from an actor but rather from an ebullient audience
member. The live theatre had not, in fact started just yet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Let
me back up a bit and explain how we got to that point.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">About a week before my husband and I
were to leave for a family Christmas/ski vacation in Montana, I received an email from fellow Angels Playwriting Collective member Robin Buckallew saying
that she was still looking to fill some roles in a reading of her one act play "Until
They Forget". She also had some exciting news about the play: it had been
chosen as one of three regional finalists in the Kennedy Center American
College Theatre one-act competition. But that reading was to be in Minneapolis
toward the end of January. The reading she needed to cast was to take place at
the Lied Lodge & Conference Center in Nebraska City, Nebraska on Sunday
January 4. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Robin is completing her MFA in
Playwriting at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. "Until They
Forget" is one of the plays that make up her thesis, and one of the
graduation requirements of the program is a reading of an excerpt of a play.
Hence the concern about finding actors. When my husband Bob Graybosch got home,
I approached him about the idea of the two of us taking the roles. I assured
him that it would just be a reading, i.e., sitting at a long table with our
scripts open in front of us. At the most, perhaps standing at podiums. What was
I thinking?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The reading was scheduled for 5:15 pm,
and there was to opportunity to rehearse before convening at 1:30 pm in the
timbered lobby of Lied Lodge. The other two actors arrived: Paula Ray,
playwright, actress, and psychologist (also an Angels Playwriting Collective
member) and her husband Bob Hall, playwright, actor, director, founder and
artistic director of Flatwater Shakespeare Company, comic book creator, and
artist. We were in great company, and that was reassuring. Robin introduced us
to our director Michael Oatman, Playwright-in-Residence of Karamu House in
Cleveland, Ohio. We followed him into the conference room where we would
rehearse, and after the first read through, Michael cordially dismissed the
stage direction reader and announced that we would perform the play as a staged
reading (i.e. still reading from the script, but up on our feet, moving around
and carrying out the physical action of the play). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Michael is what I would call an
"actor's director," and it was such an exciting experience to work
with him. He is the type of director who can intuitively sense the potential in
actors, and knows how to draw that potential out. My husband Bob has no stage
experience (although he and I did once take an acting class with Sarah Imes
Borden, and I thought he did quite well.) In a very direct, demanding, but kind
way, Michael challenged Bob to find the character within himself, to loosen up,
and to deliver some of his lines with confidence to the audience.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I should also say that we were very
grateful to have theater veteran Bob Hall in the cast. It is always nice to
have a really solid actor that leads the way and whose performance everyone
else can latch onto! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We moved into the big conference hall
for one last run through, which brings us to the last minute light checks and
other technical scuffling about. After very moving speeches by Charlene A. Donaghy,
Robin's playwriting mentor, and by Robin herself, we launched into the
performance. Although the play examines serious themes of life and death, there
is a great deal of comedy in it, and the very engaged and appreciative audience
laughed throughout. We received wonderful comments afterwards, as did Robin for
her writing, and we all retired to the Timber Dining Room for a well-</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">deserved
meal. (By the way, I also had a chocolate martini and my husband had a
Guinness.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">An epilogue:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">A few days after the staged reading, I
was hanging up the slacks I wore that day. (In order to tell this story, I have
to reveal a bit about my housekeeping habits.) Out of the pocket of the slacks
fell a '63 Corvette. OK, that sounds weird, so let me back up again with a
spoiler alert. At some point during the play, Bob Hall's character, Larry,
pulls a toy '63 Corvette out of his pocket. My character, Andi, takes the car
and plays with it for a while. I needed to get the car out of my hands, and it
seemed natural to put it in my own pocket. Each time we ran through the play, I
handed the car to Bob Hall to put into his pocket, but of course, after the
performance, we ate dinner instead. I sent the car to Robin, and she will take
it to Minneapolis for the reading there. That little '63 Corvette sure gets
around!</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclTPdux6nzJmKKye4iwyedDfnQeJZd9g8aMaV9pU4mLSaDxA6aoPQeqBbdky1g5kMTTxA7Wherzox4qyqO00-HwZ2fxqtMgnnUDLeIf0O6gI2mGvKOkMB2A75r-X02f8RpcYEbmY4aFRi/s1600/Robin's%2BReading%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclTPdux6nzJmKKye4iwyedDfnQeJZd9g8aMaV9pU4mLSaDxA6aoPQeqBbdky1g5kMTTxA7Wherzox4qyqO00-HwZ2fxqtMgnnUDLeIf0O6gI2mGvKOkMB2A75r-X02f8RpcYEbmY4aFRi/s1600/Robin's%2BReading%2B2.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reading through the script. Left to Right: Bob Hall, Paula Ray, Brigid Amos, and Bob Graybosch.</td></tr>
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<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-36026560494213806172014-12-11T13:13:00.004-08:002014-12-11T13:42:23.088-08:00An Evening and a Morning in North Platte, Nebraska<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">You can't see the town of North Platte, Nebraska
from the I-80 exit. What you can see there are the repositories of the four
great necessities of interstate road tripping: fuel, coffee, food, and last,
but not by any stretch of the imagination least, restrooms. Since the recent
addition of a Dunkin Donuts, there is also available respectable cappuccino and
what I like to call ring-shaped energy food. A mysterious fort-like structure
also presides over the exit, and I believe its purpose is to tire out unruly children
and make them fall asleep in the minivan as the family pushes forward to
Yellowstone or to wherever else they are traveling. I used to think that this
scattered collection of gas stations and chain restaurants was North Platte. Back
in May, my husband and I took a trip out west that happily shattered my
misconceptions.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">We arrived fairly late at the hotel, with just
enough time to catch dinner at the Depot Restaurant where I had a most
delicious salmon salad and photographed the stunning woodwork that gives the
place a cozy feel. We liked the place so much that we returned the next day for
lunch, and vowed to always try to eat there when we pass by the North Platte
exit around meal time.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">After dinner, we decided to stroll around the quiet
downtown. Not expecting to see much in the way of nightlife, it was quite a
surprise to turn a corner and find ourselves dazzled by the Vegas-style bright
lights of the old Fox movie theater. The neon display drew us like hapless
moths down the street and into the vestibule. It seemed that an event was just
ending, and as I searched the posters for some clue as to what we had missed,
Bob peeked through the glass of the lobby door and spotted a guitarist signing
CDs. I was so distracted by the information on the walls of the vestibule that
I never saw the musician. It turned out to be John Davidson, that perpetual
passenger of The Love Boat and purveyor of the wacky on That's Incredible. He
was performing for season ticket holders of the North Platte Community
Playhouse, and it was somehow comforting to know that this guy who once seemed
ubiquitous on television was still plugging along as a live performer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">The next day, we spent most of the morning lost in
the literary wilds of A to Z Books, a cavernous repository of used books with a
small selection of new books mixed in for good measure. The clerk was extremely
helpful and friendly, but the inventory was not computerized. It is difficult
to believe that a bookstore could operate like that in this day and age, but I
really can't blame them. When I looked around at the long walls of tall
bookcases stuffed with books on all subject imaginable, when I thought of the
daunting task of entering the seemingly endless titles into a computer
database, when I thought of even starting such an undertaking, I could easily
understand the urge to join the literary luddites. So we were forced to spend
hours at A to Z, drifting from bookcase to bookcase, scanning the spines, and pulling
out random books to peruse. All in all, a pleasant morning well spent. </span></div>
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Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-83727312903235473332014-07-01T16:42:00.001-07:002014-07-02T15:28:44.449-07:00Stealing from the Dead in North Platte, Nebraska<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">A few weeks ago, I opened up the Lincoln Journal Star and stumbled upon a short article that made me immediately go for the scissors. It wasn't the title that struck me: "Thefts at cemetery becoming blatant." What really caught my attention was the location: North Platte. It turns out that those thefts occurred at a cemetery I had visited only two weeks before. I won't repeat the contents of the article. You can read it online by clicking on the following link:</span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://journalstar.com/news/state-and-regional/nebraska/thefts-at-north-platte-cemetery-becoming-blatant/article_5a6393b9-4c3d-5b23-9723-37c4ba06c25a.html">Lincoln Journal Star</a></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">On May 19th, I accompanied my husband Bob Graybosch, USDA-ARS wheat geneticist as he checked his wheat plots at three sites across the state. (See blog post of May 19, 2014.) Our final stop that day was the North Platte Research Farm.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGgNB4hibe9BVoh3SYvPmYrUj1Kca8j6-g-1rIjya2IYJcERnALL1GxjhbDataqV0UcVtsZ4_IwjMBMKzkR26QqkZ0XR6fQhJYMlsc9G_9nxEs9nWg_RV9yR1PSdk7s23GXxznO-jLN2C/s1600/Christ+Carrying+Cross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGgNB4hibe9BVoh3SYvPmYrUj1Kca8j6-g-1rIjya2IYJcERnALL1GxjhbDataqV0UcVtsZ4_IwjMBMKzkR26QqkZ0XR6fQhJYMlsc9G_9nxEs9nWg_RV9yR1PSdk7s23GXxznO-jLN2C/s1600/Christ+Carrying+Cross.jpg" height="200" width="132" /></a>As we pulled onto the dirt road leading to the wheat field, I looked to the north where an expanse of closely cropped grass lay in stark contrast to the heading wheat. An open space in the windbreak framed an imposing statue of Christ Carrying the Cross, as if He were struggling away from me toward Calvary. There were no tombstones visible since all markers at Floral Gardens are flush with the soil surface, so it was not clear to me what I glimpsed through the windbreak. Bob told me that it was a cemetery, and although we were running very late and our dinner way overdue, he readily agreed to make a short visit to Floral Gardens after finishing with the wheat plots.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwClXohh8SSlUsVWCUTJZ6tICLRlYmeqSC3QGK66KNjYYiO0PAxaAfARdixSDG8_f0psG6QMxeDRE6uTiXOSd6ErgPIJzW7pUak_rtrzZXpxOHwTzIKuClv4SH14p55-kNccZLd6QVspfv/s1600/Mary+Statue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwClXohh8SSlUsVWCUTJZ6tICLRlYmeqSC3QGK66KNjYYiO0PAxaAfARdixSDG8_f0psG6QMxeDRE6uTiXOSd6ErgPIJzW7pUak_rtrzZXpxOHwTzIKuClv4SH14p55-kNccZLd6QVspfv/s1600/Mary+Statue.jpg" height="208" width="320" /></a><span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Floral Gardens is small, quiet, and unassuming. It is set adjacent to farmland, seeming to grow from the agricultural roots of the people who claim patches of its soil as their final homes. Only two statues break up the flat green space: the Christ Carrying the Cross and a statue of Mary standing at a distance.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">On that day, Floral Gardens was nearly devoid of memorials left by loved ones with one notable and attention-grabbing exception. Standing guard over a lone gravesite in the middle of the lawn was a statue of a yellow dog and a small angel figurine in an attitude of prayer. Bob immediately wanted to go over to this whimsical display to take a closer look, but I hesitated, as the memory of a cemetery visit many years ago rushed back with all the accompanying sadness.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">It was Eastertime 1987, and I had just moved from Alabama to Brielle, New Jersey with my parents. After unpacking, my father and I decided to take a walk and explore our new neighborhood. Soon we encountered a beautiful little cemetery set on a hill and shaded by mature white oaks and flowering dogwoods. This was the type of cemetery with headstones of all sizes and shapes standing in rows upon the young grass. Among the traditional arrangements of lilies and other spring foliage, a bright yellow Easter bunny attached to a metal stand held out his basket of treats in a welcoming gesture.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Without thinking, we hurried to that grave to take a closer look. My father and I stood there in silence as we read the very short story of a much too short life in the name and dates carved into the granite tombstone. It was the grave of a little boy who had died at three years of age. The date of his death was around seven years earlier, and as I thought of the young couple who came to this cemetery to make sure their little one would still have a Happy Easter, my eyes burned with unexpected tears. I turned to look at my father, still staring down at the grave. It was the only time I have ever seen my father cry.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">So it was with some trepidation that I approached the yellow dog and angel at Floral Gardens in North Platte. I was greatly relieved to find that it was not at all a child's grave. It was, instead, the final resting place of an older and long-married couple. They were born in the same year, and for that reason, I like to imagine that they were high school sweethearts. In bringing these tokens to their grave, their family continues to celebrate this couple's love of dogs as well as acknowledge that they now live in the company of angels. I thought that since this was the only memorial we saw at Floral Gardens, the management had some sort of rule forbidding them, and that the family of this couple was defying it. Little did I know that the reason the cemetery was nearly devoid of memorials was that people have been stealing them. The reason the yellow dog and angel were left behind was because they had no resale value.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">After reading the Lincoln Journal Star article, I tried to muster what I sensed was the requisite indignation, but all I could feel was pity. Pity for people whose grief is lightened momentarily as they leave little tokens of remembrance at gravesites. Pity for those same people who return to find those tokens gone, the petty theft adding loss upon loss. I thought of that young New Jersey couple long ago, and my heart ached to imagine them returning to their little boy's grave to find that someone had absconded with the Easter Bunny. And finally, I could not help pitying the thieves themselves. Perhaps hanging out even for a brief time with the departed can help put these things into perspective. The economic desperation that would drive a person to steal memorials from a cemetery is rampant in rural Nebraska where many lack job opportunities. In the world of crime, this is a small one, and perhaps for some, a necessary one. I'd like to think that the dead would be the first to understand and forgive. </span></div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-kO5czTi6Rb4%2FU7M2Vj2vVQI%2FAAAAAAAAAJs%2FiN-lBn5glok%2Fs1600%2FMary%2BStatue.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwClXohh8SSlUsVWCUTJZ6tICLRlYmeqSC3QGK66KNjYYiO0PAxaAfARdixSDG8_f0psG6QMxeDRE6uTiXOSd6ErgPIJzW7pUak_rtrzZXpxOHwTzIKuClv4SH14p55-kNccZLd6QVspfv/s1600/Mary+Statue.jpg" -->Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-83396372897280455022014-05-24T16:31:00.001-07:002014-05-24T16:34:32.706-07:00It's 6:31 p.m. Do you know where your wheat geneticist is?<br />
If corn is king of Nebraska and soybeans in rotation is his queen, then wheat is the clever princess, waiting to ascend the throne when the groundwater runs out. And at this time of year, when corn and soybean fields are brown expanses of prickly stubble, a wheat field rolls out lush and green like the biggest lawn you've ever seen. It's all you can do to keep from wading in barefoot, flopping down, and wriggling back and forth like a dog off its leash. But I wouldn't recommend this, unless you're the farmer who planted it. In that case, knock yourself out!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I found it hard to resist running through this lush wheat field near Wilbur, Nebraska.</td></tr>
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This past Monday, I trailed after my husband Bob Graybosch as he traveled the state "looking at wheat." As a wheat geneticist with the USDA Agricultural Research Service, this business of "looking at wheat" is a part of his job, which involves improving quality through selective breeding. He looks for and selects for traits that make wheat disease resistant and bread tastier and more nutritious, both here and in countries around the world.<br />
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But no matter how amazing these traits are, if the wheat variety can't hack it in the field, farmers won't grow it. So this past Monday, he was out looking for the winners and losers in locations near Wilbur, Clay Center, and North Platte.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking notes on winners and losers in wheat plots near Clay Center Nebraska.</td></tr>
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By the way, if you're puzzling over how in May a wheat field is so far ahead of corn and soybeans, this is hard winter wheat, that clever princess that establishes herself over the harsh Nebraska winter while these other fields lie fallow. Then in midsummer, when corn and soybeans are desperately waiting to get a drink from the center pivot, winter wheat has already matured and is ready for harvest!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only at North Platte did we see wheat heading. Look closely and you will see the wheat flowers peeking out!</td></tr>
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Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-65877732038813976792014-05-12T20:36:00.001-07:002014-05-12T20:36:18.575-07:00It's 10:36 p.m. Do you know where your cafe is?This morning I headed to the Mill in College View, ordered a slice of Beaver Crossing asparagus quiche, a mug of Brazilian coffee, and installed myself at a little table along the brick wall in the narrow western room. I opened my journal, and then stared out the window at Conroy's Bakery across the street (ah Conroy's donuts, I hardly knew ye before my cholesterol rose) and savored that killer quiche and perfectly brewed coffee.<br />
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Almost every time my husband Bob and I sit together in a cafe like this, he poses the following question: What did people do before the proliferation of cafes? I know he doesn't mean those greasy spoons that call themselves something like "The Roadside Cafe." (I suppose no one would eat at a place called the "Roadside Greasy Spoon" except maybe dishwasher salesmen.) I also don't mean those upscale restaurants that call themselves cafes, like the now defunct French Cafe in the Omaha Old Market. No, I mean the cozy cousins of Starbucks, the locally owned, espresso compressing, milk steaming, all generational watering holes like the College View Mill (yes, yes, I know the Haymarket Mill, but this one is <i>my</i> Mill.)<br />
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Here in this narrow space, the wheezing of the cappuccinos being born and the unidentifiable heavy metal music are thankfully muted. I see four young people on laptops, a middle aged guy in the back with headphones on, as glued to his laptop as the kids are, and a senior citizen couple right in front of me absorbed in a card game. (The card playing woman just said to her husband, "I didn't mean for it to be easy for you." Wow, she wants to mop the floor with him.)<br />
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We could all be doing this stuff at home. But it's not the same, is it? So what is it about sitting here in this place that is other than home, where the music and chatter and card shuffling and laughter make us feel more productive, more creative, more social, more introspective, and for the lady at the next table, more competitive?<br />
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I still don't have an answer, so I'll throw the question out to you. Time to put my plate, mug, and fork into the plastic bin and move on. Now if I can just get back to my car without crossing the street to Conroy's... Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-14461490419389761492014-03-11T20:05:00.000-07:002014-05-09T09:54:51.884-07:00It's 10:05 p.m. Do you know where your plumber is? Until last Wednesday, I did not know there was such a thing as an uncloggable clog. After a good two hours of snaking from both the kitchen sink and the basement utility sink, the plumber from Green's gave up. He and I then planned out the route of the new pipes he would install running from the kitchen sink to the main outlet, a route that thankfully did not involve digging up the basement floor. When he came back on Friday, he cut the existing pipes and constructed a rather stylish bypass out of PVC pipe, tucking it neatly into the the wooden and steel supports on the basement ceiling.<br />
How often are we told that when we run into an obstacle (or a clog), we should keep on pushing (or snaking) against it until it budges (or flushes). What if it never does? What if it never will? What if all that slamming ourselves against an unmovable obstacle just sends us to either the chiropractor or the therapist? I am not arguing against perseverance. Perseverance is my middle name. (Actually, I don't have a middle name. If I did, Perseverance would be a good one. In that case, I might call myself Persey.) I am just suggesting that sometimes, a bypass is the way to go. I know my plumber would agree.<br />
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<br />Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124780869228536527.post-69660221861583305172014-03-06T15:44:00.000-08:002014-05-09T09:50:38.150-07:00It's 5:42 p.m. Do you know where your cat is?No, this will not be a blog about cats. My husband would never forgive me for that. But since I am starting that way, here is a cat poem I wrote some time back. I wonder what happens when I hit that publish button. Does it really go out on the internet? Enjoy!<br />
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Oh enviable cat<br />
so well-placed in life<br />
wrapped around a table leg in transient winter light.<br />
Your little mind<br />
is uncluttered and clean.<br />
Who wouldn't wish to dream only of fish<br />
swimming lazy and slow<br />
in a waterless stream?<br />
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Good night Nebraska!<br />
<br />Brigid Amoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02560978490135729335noreply@blogger.com0