Goodbye Julian Bond, hero and powerful voice for justice, By Sandy Semerad

“Those were the days,” Julian Bond said, as I handed him a copy of my novel, A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES.

“It’s based on the murder trial I covered as a reporter in Atlanta back in the 1980s,” I explained.  He remembered the trial and the Klan march I wrote about in the novel.

            I felt fortunate to have reconnected with him. I wanted granddaughter Cody to meet a fearless and cool civil rights activist and listen to him speak at the Destin Library in Destin, Florida.

Although that was a year ago, it seems like yesterday. I can’t believe he’s no longer with us.

We have lost a hero and a powerful voice for justice.

I first saw Julian on television at the Democratic National Convention. He was nominated for Vice President of the United States, leading up to the 1968 election.  He was only 28 and had to decline, due to a constitutional age requirement of 35.

            Julian was ahead of his time. He began his activism at 17.  He helped lead the sit-in movement to fight segregation in Atlanta, and bravely spoke out with a deep and resonant voice for those with no voice in the Jim Crow South.

He was one of the Freedom Riders with Martin Luther King, Jr. and later helped start the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee.

            In 1965, he was elected to the Georgia House of Representative. (The Civil Rights Act and Voting Rights Act had given blacks the opportunity to vote).

Although he was lawfully elected to serve, the Georgia House refused to seat him, because he had endorsed SNCC’s policy opposing the Vietnam War.

            Julian refused to back down. He fought for his rightful seat in the House. He took his case all the way to the United States Supreme Count. The high court ruled (Bond v. Floyd) in his favor, stating the Georgia House of Representatives couldn’t deny his freedom of speech. He went on to serve four terms in the Georgia House and six terms in the Georgia Senate.

            I remember meeting him face to face for the first time at a Jefferson-Jackson Day dinner in Atlanta. We kept running into each other while talking to the same people. We laughed at this coincidence and he said, “Must be in the stars.”

            And speaking of stars, he was a bright and shining beacon of hope, who spoke out for what he thought was right. For decades he's been saying black lives matter, women’s rights matter, gay rights matter, human rights matter, and he never gave up the fight.

“If you don’t like gay marriage, don’t get gay married,” he has said. He was born African American, just as some people were born gay, he said.

            Thanks to the Southern Poverty Law Center, Julian co-founded with Morris Dees, the Klan lost its vicious bite.  SPLC sought justice on behalf of victims. These lawsuits helped to break the Klan financially.

            I could go on and on about Julian Bond’s accomplishments. Not only was he a civil rights activist, commentator, eloquent speaker, professor, author, poet, Saturday Night Live host and occasional actor, he was also a husband, father and grandfather.

“He advocated not just for African-Americans but for every group, every person subject to oppression and discrimination, because he recognized the common humanity in us all,” Morris Dees has articulately said.

I say amen to that, as I bid farewell to a great man.

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http://www.sandysemerad.com

Voices by Ginger Simpson

I heard this older song today by Chris Young and some of it really relates to how I feel when I'm writing.  I recently promised Jude, our publisher, a book by December 31st.  I have it started, but now I have to tune out the voices of Cassie and Will from Deceived in order to get Sarah's Soul finished in time for the fall deadline.

I'm sure I explained in a previous post the difference between Pantsers and Plotters.  I, unfortunately, rely on voices in my head to help me write.  Without all that chatter, I'm at a loss.  I've tried plotting and it just doesn't work for me, so all the people talking in my head are really a blessing...at times.

For me being a "pantser" is akin to having someone tell me a story.  I listen and jot down the words, but I never know where I'm headed until I get there.  It's a lot more exciting, in my opinion, to having a chart of some type that outlines your entire novel for you.  I prefer to be surprised.  The only problem is when the characters are done, so is the book.  I've written some short, some long, and some in between.  You never know how long creating a novel is going to take when you're a pantser.

 I have to admit I do take notes now because my memory has faded with age.  There is nothing worse than forgetting the heroes name and putting in one from another book or having your heroine suddenly gaze through blue eyes instead of green with gold flecks.

If you're a pantser too, you'll be able to relate to this video.  If you aren't, you probably will anyhow, since all those words of wisdom your parents and grandparents shared with you still run through your mind.  I can hear my granny to this day telling me all little boys wanted to do was get in my panties.  I could never figure out what they'd do once they got them on.  How embarassing.  I never wanted to wear Jockey shorts.  Now that I'm older, I realize she was warning me to be a lady.  *lol*

So...I may be camping for the next few months, but I'll be working on Sarah's Hope.  This will be sort of continuation of Sarah's Heart and Passion.  Here's an except closer to the end of that book so you'll better relate to what Sarah is sharing with me now.  She's a chatty one, for sure.

“Really.” He (Wolf) caressed her cheek. “I love you Sarah Collins, and I’d be honored if you would consider spending this life with me. I might have been unselfish enough to have given you up once, but not twice.”

Glee squeezed Sarah’s heart. She’d lived through pure hell in a dream, found the love of her life only to lose him, and now she had a second chance. No way was she missing out on the passion she felt for this man. Locking her arms around his neck, she rested her cheek against his chest, drinking in his warmth, his smell, his feel. “I love you, too, Nathaniel Grey Wolf Elder, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend eternity with…even if it’s on a cattle ranch in Missouri.”

Please check my website for places where you can find this book, and most likely my upcoming one.

                            

http://www.bookswelove.net

Mothers and Mortality by Stuart R. West

A year ago, my mother had open-heart surgery. I was just as terrified as her. Nothing makes you confront your own mortality more than having a parent--someone you've taken for granted all your life, always expecting to be there--go under the knife. I felt like I'd be on the operating table alongside her.

Months before, my mom waffled about having the procedure.  Her aorta was closing fast, surgery the only option. But my mother elevates stubbornness to an art-form. She'd said, "Maybe it's best to leave it in God's hands and let me live the rest of my life as is." 

"Your grandchildren are counting on you," I'd told her. Absolutely shameless, sure, but I played the "grandkid card" nonetheless.

It worked. Mom decided to have the procedure. I told my winter-bound Florida "snow-bird" mother to get her dancing heels ready 'cause the procedure would go great.

The family gathered on the day of the operation, three sons and their families. We sat in the cold, sterile waiting room, chugging bad coffee, killing time by reminiscing. Every embarrassing tale from my childhood was dragged out and beaten like a rug. Then we had even more bad coffee.

The operation went well. So well the surgeon pronounced the procedure as "boring."  "Boring's" good in this case.

Hours after the operation, my wife and I visited Mom in Intensive Care.

And I totally lost it.

I wasn't prepared.

My mother, dear God, I didn't recognize her.

She uttered disembodied, agonized "oh's" every few seconds, her eyes wandering, milky and lost. She looked like she'd lost twenty pounds in ten hours. I wanted to hold her, kiss her cheek, afraid I'd break her.

There was no way of letting her know how much I loved her.

Later that same day, I visited again, dreading what I'd find.

I couldn't believe the difference. Sitting up in a chair, she welcomed me. I helped feed her breakfast, administer her medicine, scratch her neck. When she started griping about things, I thought, "Yes! My warrior mother's back!"

All past grievances, annoyances, racial and political differences I'd had with her jettisoned out of the room.

My Mom. The angel who raised me, formed me, talked me through things. Protected me from monsters under the bed and monsters in the school yard.

I cradled her head as gently as I could, said, "Mom, I love you. I'll do anything I can for you."

*** 

My new Books We Love novel can be found here: Ghosts of Gannaway

Book trailer for Ghosts of Gannaway: