Getting antsy.............

We're three months out from The Wedding Dress Quilt publication day. August 25th for those of you keeping score. I'm both ecstatic and terrified. I shouldn't be because this will be my fifth book, plus I've been in 13 Chicken Soup for the Soul titles and had so many articles published that I long ago lost count. Still, The Wedding Dress Quilt occupies a special spot in my heart. Why?

WDQ takes place in Texas, which is where my mother's side of the family goes back four generations. I'm a proud fifth-generation Texan. Many would argue that I'm not because I was born in California. That's just a minor technicality. Half of me bleeds Texas red and I'm proud of that. It took 30 years to get here, but eventually, I did, with a husband and a cat in tow. From the day we rolled into town, we knew that we made the right decision moving halfway across the country. I bring all of this up because it happens to Lisbeth in WDQ, too. The cross-country move was not the only major event that Lisbeth and I share. When we settled in I discovered a lot of family in Texas that I didn't know existed. Much like Lisbeth who before she moved to Texas had no idea that she was born in Texas and had more relatives than she could count on all her toes and fingers. Okay, so Lisbeth and I share a few life events. You'll have to read the book to find out about the others. 

I'm pretty sure that I am not the first or only author to dip into my family history and borrow aspects of our family sojourn as background or fodder for colorful scenes. Is this my memoir? Absolutely not. Lisbeth and I simply share a few experiences and circumstances. Had my family settled in Alaska in the 19th century the book would probably have been based in Sitka or Ketchikan or Skagway instead of Waxahachie in Texas. As you read through the book, I'm sure you'll wonder if a given scene really happened to someone in my family or to me or did I shape an event to fit into WDQ. If you're really curious, email me. I keep no secrets. 

Getting back to why WDQ occupies a special place in my heart: it's as much a part of me as my physical being. From the first moment that I started thinking about Lisbeth's story, I realized that the story had been fomenting for years and years. I wrote it down, and discovered that it was only about 1,500 words, a short story. A friend read it and asked why I didn't write it as a novel, in other words, add 50-60,000 more words. I couldn't fathom it. I said everything I wanted to say, and yet something was niggling me, pushing me to add to the story. It took five years and eventually, the story blossomed into what you read today. I'm pretty happy with it. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. I'd love to know what you think of The Wedding Dress Quilt.

Till next time,

Jeffree Wyn

Happy Belated Mother's Day!

I meant to post this message on Sunday to wish all you mamas out there a glorious day. Obviously, that didn't happen, so I'm going to Plan B. Who says we should be honoring and cherishing our mothers on just one day a year? I am starting a new tradition that calls for celebrating mothers for a whole week. And if my mama were still alive today (that's her in the photo above) I could shower her with love all week long. So, I didn't miss the big day, since I've got seven days to celebrate her. If only she were here. It's been 18 years since she left us and I still miss her terribly.

After she suffered a stroke at age 78 and developed dementia not long after, she lost bits and pieces of her memory every day. She still knew who I was, as well as my brothers and sister, and we were grateful for that. 

What bothered me most was that she had lived an extremely vibrant and interesting life, and just when she should have had those memories to recall in her later years, she had no idea that she was the executive assistant to Darryl Zanuck, one of Hollywood's major producers and studio executives. She didn't remember any of the stories she told us about what really went on in Hollywood; some of them were real doozies. 

She didn't know that she turned heads when she walked down a street. And that many people mistook her for the famed actress, Ava Gardner. 

She didn't remember that our father gave her a pink Cadillac convertible that made the whole town turn and look when she drove it anywhere. 

She didn't know that we moved to Honolulu in 1963, where we lived on a beach in a mansion that used to belong to the Vanderbilts. I tasted my first kiwi, mango, and papaya fruit off the trees in our yard. Coconut too. 

She didn't remember attending a fundraiser for Richard Nixon in 1960 and when she returned home said she wouldn't vote for him because she didn't like his nose. She argued that a man with a nose like that couldn't be trusted. Though he didn't win in 1960, and did win in 1968, she was proven right with the Watergate scandal. 

Though she saw my sister and I marry she didn't get to witness the successes we achieved in our work lives. Fortunately, she did get to meet and dearly love her grandchildren. 

She didn't know that she could cook as well as any major chef. Whenever we'd eat out in a new restaurant, she would make notes of any new dishes, go home, and practice making them in our kitchen until hers were exact replicas of the restaurants. 

Mama didn't realize how artistic she was, that she sculpted, created glass mosaics, knitted, sewed, made candles, created decoupage, macrame, woodworking, stained glass, and a few dozen other crafts that I can't remember. She was always making something. My sister and I have no doubt that we got our creative streaks from her. 

I knew that she was really slipping one day when I called her to let her know that I made her recipe for lemon bars and that it turned out perfectly. She paused for a few moments then asked, "What's a lemon bar?" I felt my heart breaking. I told her what it was and she responded that it sounded good but why did I say it was her recipe. Trying to keep my voice from cracking I explained that she had developed the recipe, and that she used to frequently make them. She responded, "Oh." I knew at that moment that not only did she not understand what a lemon bar was, she didn't know what a recipe was either. 

It's hard enough to lose your mama; no one can fill her shoes. I would add that it's even harder to lose your mama when her memories are gone.